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The early morning sun sizzles on my tanned, weathered skin.
I rise over the ridge with a sense of alertness and adrenaline.
I spot my prey, the herd of bison.
I’m determined to get my horse closer before we charge.
Dominant bull on the left, 55 yards.
My beautifully crafted recurve bow and arrow comfort my hand.
My horse and I stalk down the ridge line guardedly hiding behind boulders.
This bull is for me, for my tribe, for us.
We are in range, adrenaline screaming at me.
Don’t hesitate, the tribe counts on me.
I jab my horse’s side with my spur of my dusty boots.
We take off the bull realizes we are coming.
My horse gains our prey, closing fast, now almost alongside him.
The ruckus tears by the landscape like a tornado ripping through towns.
Don’t fail me stead, I better ready an arrow.
Horse and bison hooves pound on the dusty desert floor.
We keep chasing, it’s like racing a desert marathon.
I draw my bow, I prepare for the shot. Concentration honed in on my kill.
I feel the waxy, fraying bow string release from my fingers.
Did I lead him far enough?
The bison’s nostrils fire steam in the crisp, morning cold snap.
A frantic moan exits the bull bison once my arrow penetrates the beast.
My arrow is buried deep in his cape, it’s over.
I’m bringing the beast home, I’m supplying for my tribe.
My horse as worn down as the bottom of my bison leather moccasins.
We start our trek back, exhausted and drained.
The desert sun drinks the water, leaving it stale and dry.
I focus ahead in the distance, there’s no one left.