I was an antelope. Stripes splayed across my body; horns twisted skyward. I could see the plains’ lopsided baobab tree whisper equations, offer directions to the sun. A doe welcomed me, her shady gaze like the rippling air, and as I stepped towards her a patch of grass spoke: “I am the savannah’s last green.” I bent to bite sweet shoots, but before my lips could usher grass inside, she kissed me. I had not realized she moved so close to me, could not smell the heat of saffron fur. I looked up when she paused, watched as a gust resettled the pattern of her stripes, then stared at my hooves, shy. And when I looked up again, the tree had shifted, the grass lay withered, and she was only shimmer.