struggles and triumphs seem shadowed. Cast forever into darkness by that one moment. But now that I am old, and it will not be long before my body gives up the fight, a new thought has come to me. Maybe part of the struggle is to know when to be at war, and when to be at peace. The mighty hunter returns home empty handed not because he cannot continue, but because there is no point. The weak hunter returns home empty handed because he is afraid to struggle, because he is afraid to fight. And I go to my grave, still the mightiest of hunters, the bravest of warriors, and the greatest of heroes.
And no friend of the Lakota.
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