Little Goat Mountain the poem that took place of a mountain

She didn’t know how long she laid there for, focused on breathing and trying to keep still. It took a second before he approached and she tensed all her muscles, limbs folding in on themselves and closing her off to the outside world. The question went unanswered while a bitter taste rose in her throat. Ocra opened her mouth to speak when a familiar Spanish accent came out instead. She blinked her olive eyes before she slowly pulled to see a familiar Spanish wolf suddenly talking to her.

Ocra looked at him for a long moment before she made another move to stand, the pale wolf objecting to having done anything. She scoffed while her legs untangled themselves and, unsteadily, picked herself up from the ground. Discovering she was unable to put any weight on her right front leg, she gingerly placed her toes on the ground once she’d angled herself to appear to be on Sriracha’s team.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” she lied but she wanted the whole thing to be over. The white boy could go about his business now and Ocra would return with the friend she’d made and never have to see him again.