Underneath the Australian sun,
we have begun to gather wallaby grass
for the night's fire. It hasn't signaled
anybody, but scorching flames keep the wild dogs
at bay.  Losing count, four

nights, I think, have now passed.
Mother and father must be ill
from worry; we've
never been far this far out before. Amidst play
of seek and hide, Frank went in search
for the perfect spot -- a fairly good one
as it took two hours to find him--
but night arose, and father's compass
had been left upon the porch's rail.

A few days later, we managed
to find a small amount of water,
but it won't last
with three of us; and I can already see
the exhausted expressions carved upon
my brothers' faces. Though Isaac
continues to search, I believe
even he shall soon relinquish the hope
that rescuers will arrive.

It's been a week. At what point
will the police discontinue our search?
When a month has passed?
With no food and the last drops
having evaporated onto our parched tongues
before the sun was set,
how could we survive that long?

But the question wandering deep
within my mind is, “Does anyone
even believe we are alive?”
Perhaps it is not worry
our parents are now suffering,
but grief.

Though I cannot tell the boys of my suspicions,
nor can let them see my fatigue