My Poor Little Colt
The herd never left the little colt with broken front legs. They cared not that he slowed them down, or that he was different. They cared only for him. They stayed with him until the end..... and I cried at his brief struggle to survive. I photographed him over several weeks, and on his last day, as he lay in the sagebrush, barely able to lift his head, my heart broke. The herd, after standing vigil all day nearby, without water, would have to leave soon, and he would die alone in the dark. I returned to work on the reservation, a lump in my throat, barely able to speak. A few hours later, I was told someone finally took care of him and put him down. Almost 2 years later, I look at his picture and tears well in my eyes. I wished I had the power to heal, to fix, to alleviate suffering, and lament that I do not.
From Nevada Desert