They’re upright, among the grass, strong and heavy and
asleep. It’s before dawn and the grass
streaks dew along your legs and you creep, low and fast and quiet as you
can. The first one smells faintly sweet
and like something else, something animal, sweat and hormones and the body
results of all the processes: digestion and flowing blood and some deeply
buried semblance of thought. It peers at
you with this side’s eye and the rumbling beginning of a low grumbles from its
throat. You put both hands on its side
and it’s too sleepy to move quickly, to bolt, and you push hard and after one
stumble it tips.
“But,” Rashmi says, “why?”
There’s a pause.
“Because,” someone says tentatively, “it’s fun.”
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