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.”