Little Goat Mountain the poem that took place of a mountain

Sriracha wasn't following Ocra. No way. That would be weird, and creepy, and disrespectful of her individuality. Nope. Not following her. He just happened to have arrived at their agreed rendeszvou point a little early and, upon seeing Ocra, decided to tag along. From a distance. Completely quiet. He'd gotten a little distracted by some interesting smells along the way, thus missing Ocra's conversation with the stranger. It was hard to miss her running away though, and equally difficult to not see the man give chase.

Well, now that wouldn't do. Sriracha took off after them both and caught up just in time to see her fall onto her face. She didn't move from where she landed, and he chose to reveal himself so he could check on her. Ocra didn't look dead. Dead wolves didn't keep breathing. Relieved that he hadn't just witnessed the murder (accidental or not) of his first friend he'd made since arriving, he looked now to the wolf that had given chase. Man, what gives? he asked. Ocracoke, mi amiga, you good?