Meadowlark Prairie You guide me with your hands

A rustle in the brush was all it took for Sunhawk to be on alert. He wiped the snotty grime of his nose on one foreleg, ears erect as he peered out into the sunny afternoon.

Well, that ain't something you see every day. A wolf, the color of damprot log, dusted off in a film of irradiated yellow so offensive to the eyes it made our poor old boy Sunny squint. Whoever this wolf was, he looked like he'd been dragged through the goldenrod patch on a lark - to the point where Sunhawk could scarcely discern what the man's true pelt shade was.

"Why, thassa nice bit of camouflage you're flauntin' there, pardner." Sunhawk's expression turned to merry cheekiness as he obeyed the pollen-clad wolf's summons and strode out to the clearing. "But what's your purpose, attractin' all the honeybees? They'll be all over you like 'yotes on a drowning deer in a ten thousand year famine, so they will. What's the deal? You tryin' to find a honeysweet mate?"