Fox's Glade he was a livin' breathin' action screenplay cliche

He breaks away from his small group to hunt — it's a feeling all too familiar, and he can't make heads or tails of the odd similarities between his situation now and his situation almost a year ago. Does it mean he's destined to fail all over again? To repeat this hellish cycle of events until he dies, his own personal hell? He can't imagine anything more fitting, really.
It's not the prey in the glade that ultimately captures his attention, but the foliage; he spots remnants of herbs he won't find again until after winter has passed, and the medic in him can't resist their pull. Plants, he thinks, are easier than wolves. More simple. And sometimes he envies them for it — there are few things he wouldn't give, at this point, to be so dull and lifeless and boring, only needing dirt and sunlight, the occasional rainfall or piss of some passing animal to survive. No emotions, no fucking up. Just leaves and sunshine, and probably the persistent smell of every single thing rotting on the forest floor.
Whatever. It'd be easier.