I awake to empty fields,

    and coyote bones

    on my doorstep.

The trees,

    like the dead,

    are silent.

My strength

    weeps out

    from shattered limbs,

and my breaths

    heave

    in flattened gasps,

    dusty and yellow.

I count days,

    like poundings

    against my skull,

    bright and sharp.

I thirst

    for dew

    or rain,

but my flesh

    is a stranger

    to hope.