We hunted them, found them, took them back. They kept escaping. All day we headed out, found prints in dry earth, caught them crouched beneath rattling thorns. We were calm, silent, gentle. Walked back like dead men. No wind rattled bare trees. A white sun lost in a white sky. Eventually we decided to sedate them, complaining, lay them under slow fans, watch the growths turn blacker with passing hours. They died in front of us, each one. But we couldn’t let them die out there alone. No matter how much they wanted it we couldn’t have survived it.