Alone.
Am I the last of my tribe to breath this desert air?
I open my eyes, preparing for another battle against hopelessness.

Hungry.
Will the taste of meat ever gratify me again?
I survey the land, searching for a savior in an expanse of discouragement.
Steps to my right, a single bison wanders in solitude.

Confident.
Can I be more sure of this shot than of the ground supporting me?
I grab bow and arrow, weak hands trembling.
Pulling back the arrow I take aim, the taste of roasted meat on my tongue.

Hopeful.
Was that a breath from the devil?
I watch in disbelief, the arrow snatched off target by a gust of wind.
Collapsing to the ground, the empty horizon mocks me.

Alone.
Am I the last of my tribe to breath this desert air?
I close my eyes, and lay eternally without an answer.