Sunday mornings at dawn, people come from all about the Karakol region to buy, sell, and trade their animals (collect them all!).
By noon, it’s all over. Bulls & cows, sheep, and oh the horsies. I don’t know how many sad faces I saw (or imagined to see for purposes of sentimentality)–sadness on the faces of horses singularly escorted to the market by their owners, such as the boy and big fellow at the top of the page.
Reality is probably more that the kid’s pissed off his father made him get up before dawn to sell that good-for-nothing animal when he could still be sleeping off his hangover.
They’re not like you and me.