Little Goat Mountain the poem that took place of a mountain

Perhaps if she didn’t have a tender shoulder she could put a greater distance between herself and the strange male. If she could use her full speed without putting too much pain through her body, where the current speed already played a toll and slowing her down, she’d be able to rush through the tree line and disappear into the forest. However, Ocra was never much known for her grace—the white male having saw that first hand before—and she nearly tripped when he came into view next to her. 

Well, that wasn’t fair.

Ocra tries for one final burst of energy, disregarded the pain seared through her shoulder, and she bolted forward just a little. But when he veered in front of her, halting, she suddenly scrambled to a stop that sent her, once more, face first into the ground. Her brakes hadn’t been up to paw when trying to stop and for fear of actually running into the man, she found herself eating dirt.

Instead of picking herself up and dusting herself off, Ocra’s chest heaved roughly while she laid in the shape of a pretzel on the ground. Her eyes wandered off somewhere else, afraid to move partially in fear of damaging her shoulder further and partially in fear of triggering another response to her fleeing. He hadn’t taken her request to be left alone moments ago, no amount of pleading would grant her wish now.