All of Arda belongs to the Professor. I am just a traveller.
The trunk of the great pine sheltered the remains of a fire, banked to embers. Its curling roots held gently snoring sleepers, each rolled up in a homespun cloak with his head cradled on his pack as a rough pillow.
A pair of deep green eyes observed them from the shadow of a neighboring tree.
When the watcher was sure they were asleep, he crept forward a little, sniffing the air for a scent of leftovers. But as the sleepers were hobbits, none were to be found so the fox stretched, his tawny fur gleaming like the fire, and moved on.