Wolf counted fourteen sunsets before realizing he would never reach the Mountain if he continued trying to trap time as it flowed past him, like salmon in the river. Instead, he sang along with the hymns and ballads played by the leaves fluttering and branches swaying in the winds.
Forests gave way to great grass plains, gave way to wetlands, gave way to staggered outcroppings of stones, gave way to rolling highlands, gave way to sharp cliffs. And then, in the distance, growing larger, looming with every step he took the Mountain of the Always Circling Hawk.
Wolf began to run.
Written while listening to this, over and over: