Picture It I See photography

06/19/2026

There is something tender about this moment. The little fawn is taking those first uncertain steps into a world that must seem so big, while its mother pauses and looks back to make sure her baby is still there. Watching them reminds me that love is often found in the smallest things—not in words, but in a glance over a shoulder, a quiet reassurance, a promise that says, “I’m here.” As I stood behind the camera, I couldn’t help but think about how every mother, whether deer or human, spends her life teaching her children to walk a little farther while never letting them wander too far from her heart. In the tall prairie grass, surrounded by summer’s gentle beauty, I was witnessing something timeless: a mother’s love and a baby’s trust.

06/18/2026

I spend a lot of time looking ahead, watching the gravel road disappear into the distance, wondering what waits around the next bend. But every once in a while, I catch myself looking into the rearview mirror. In that small piece of glass, I can see the miles I've already traveled, the places that shaped me, and the roads that carried me here. I see dusty country roads, small towns, old houses, and faces that once filled my life. I see dreams that came true and others that quietly slipped away. There are things I should have done, words I should have said, and chances I should have taken. There are people I wish I had held onto a little longer and moments I wish I had appreciated more while I was living them. Some roads led exactly where I hoped they would. Others ended in places I never expected. And then there are the roads that were never traveled at all—the "what could have been" and the "what should have been" that still visit me from time to time.

As I sit here looking into that mirror, I realize life isn't really about finding perfect answers. It's about carrying the memories of where we've been while still finding the courage to keep moving forward. The past grows smaller the farther down the road we travel, but it never completely disappears. It rides along with us, teaching us, reminding us, and sometimes even comforting us. The gravel road ahead is still unknown, and there are more hills to climb and more sunsets to chase. Maybe some dreams are behind me now, but others are still waiting somewhere beyond the horizon. So I glance one last time into the mirror, smile at the life I've lived, make peace with the things that never were, and turn my eyes back toward the road ahead. After all, the story isn't over yet. There are still miles to go.

06/18/2026

06/18/2026

This old buffalo stands alone in the first light of morning, and as I look at him, I cannot help but wonder how many sunrises he has seen in a place like this. The golden light pours down from the hills of Custer State Park like heaven itself has opened a door, wrapping him in warmth and turning the prairie grass into a sea of gold. He moves slowly now, not with the restless energy of youth but with the quiet confidence of something that has survived. His scarred shoulders and heavy frame tell a story of hard winters, deep snows, drought, storms, battles with other bulls, and years spent wandering these same hills. I imagine he feels the warmth of the rising sun on his back and welcomes it like an old friend. Perhaps he pauses for a moment, listening to the wind moving through the grass, smelling the earth still damp from the cool night, and remembering places only he knows. The younger bulls may challenge him now and his steps may not be as quick as they once were, but there is a dignity about him that cannot be measured by strength alone. Standing there in that golden light, he seems to understand something that I am still trying to learn—that life is not about how fast we run or how much we conquer, but about simply being present for the gift of another morning. As I watch him disappear into the sunlight, I feel something deep inside me stir. I see more than a buffalo. I see resilience. I see wisdom. I see a life lived one season at a time. And for a brief moment, standing there beneath the same sun, I feel connected to him. Two old souls sharing the same morning, grateful for another day, another sunrise, and another chance to walk a little farther down the trail before the shadows finally call us home.

06/18/2026

This photograph speaks to something far deeper than feathers, beadwork, and tradition. It is about a father bending low to share the sacred gifts that cannot be bought, taught in a classroom, or written in a book. In that quiet moment, he is passing down the stories of his people, the lessons of respect, humility, courage, and belonging. The child may be too young to fully understand the meaning of every word, but wisdom is being carried from one generation to the next just the same. The old ways survive not because they are written down, but because they are lived, shared, and remembered. The father's bowed head is a symbol of responsibility, while the child's attentive posture reflects trust and the promise of tomorrow. What is being exchanged between them is more than tradition; it is identity itself. It is the unspoken understanding that one day the child will carry these same teachings forward, becoming the keeper of stories, values, and memories yet to be made. In a world that changes so quickly, moments like this remind us that the strongest bridges between the past and the future are built through love, family, and the quiet passing of wisdom from one generation to the next.

06/18/2026

I come here when the world is still wrapped in darkness, before the first hint of daylight touches the horizon. I walk this gravel road because I need to feel summer breathing around me. I come to remember what joy feels like. I come to watch the sunrise and to stand beneath a sky that still believes in miracles. The older I get, the more invisible I seem to become. People pass by without seeing me. The world moves faster than I can keep up with. Sometimes it feels as though I am slowly fading into the background. But out here, before the day awakens, something different happens. The wind moves through the cottonwoods and calls my name. The colors spilling across the eastern sky reach places inside me that words cannot touch. For a few precious moments, I am not forgotten.

It is here that Mother Earth reminds me I am never truly alone. The meadowlark singing from the fence post sees me. He does not care about my age, my failures, my losses, or the miles I have traveled. He simply knows I belong. The trees know me. The prairie grass knows me. Even the gravel beneath my boots seems to recognize my footsteps. I come here because there is a part of me that still longs to be seen, still longs to be felt, still longs to be loved. I wish some things in life had turned out differently. I wish some people had stayed. I wish some doors had never closed. Yet every sunrise whispers the same lesson: life is not over, and neither am I.

Out here my spirit is free. I am more than an old man carrying a camera. I am more than the struggles that shaped me. I become part of the wind, part of the trees, part of the endless sky stretching toward tomorrow. Every photograph I take carries a piece of my heart because I am not standing outside the picture looking in. I am living inside it. My photography is real because these moments are real. The tears are real. The hope is real. The longing is real. And as the first rays of sunlight break across the prairie, I am reminded that I am real too. For one brief moment, standing on this lonely road beneath a painted sky, I feel exactly the way I wish life could feel every day—seen, understood, and loved. 🌅

06/17/2026

During my week of photographing the Hawks. I kept journals every time I took a picture every time I thought about something I recorded it on my cell phone. I have all of these journals from seven days concerning the Hawks about their parents about how they live how they interact. I have two professor, friends of mine who are encouraging me to not stop. They said I have to stay with them until they leave, which could’ve been by now because I haven’t been out there in a couple of days. They want me to write a story to coincide with the pictures and submit to like National Geographic or the Audubon Society. They think I’m going to have great success with this. I’m looking for a different people that would like to donate to this project. I need at least $400 to cover the week the gas expense of renting the Lens if you would be willing to help donate to this cause I would greatly appreciate it to the three that already have a thank you from the bottom of my heart. You are just a much of a part of what’s going on with this project it’s as if you’re sitting there with me every day. If you would like to donate please PM me I’d like to get back out there ASAP I have offered some prints for sale of the Hawks that I’ve taken if you’re interested in purchasing a print would be a great way to help. Thank you all of my friends, all of my followers. Your support has been overwhelming with words of encouragement, thank you. 

06/15/2026

Maybe that is why I love the prairie so much. It reminds me that there are still mysteries left in the world. There are places I have never been, people I have never met, and stories I have not heard yet. This old road is my path through all of it. I don’t know where it leads, and truthfully I don’t think I want to know. I think some things are meant to stay unknown until the day we arrive, and there is something beautiful about that.

Joel David Schwader