Part II of this poem “Guide” is ottava rima:
II
My muscles locked, my lungs devoid of air, I struggle to my knees, do all I can to grapple with my guide's chimeric stare. Though fierce, its eyes suggest an honest man's; despite its tarnished scales, its clotted hair, the fecal stench its winged panting fans, I realize that here is native brawn so, answering its crouching, I climb on.
Note: I felt a bad taste in my mouth as I finished this, so sour was its working. Well, it’s effort, it’s practice.