He would wake up early most days. Make his way down the ravine and through the fog to the clearing where the sunrise had just begun to warm the tips of the grass blades he pawed. It was a trek he knew well.
At the bottom of the hill he took a solitary sojourn, crooking his head uneasily back to glance the forest from which he came, then forward toward the barn where he liked to spend more and more time these days.
The wolf approached the beehive slowly, as always. Part of his nature told him it was pure danger, but this meant less and less these days.