Sleepy Fox Hollow potage.

A few days in the Canyons, and suddenly it was all Colin had ever known. Instead of waking up to a humid, muggy morning, he opens his eyes to a violent shade of blue. Cloudless and dazzling, it was less of a sky and more of an act of indulgence. 

He decides to take the time to explore the borders of the Canyon; a path takes him up through the mountain edge where the land abruptly opens up to a hollow. It is musty with stale air, and overwhelmingly quaint. He gingerly picks his way through the undergrowth. Gaunt and deprived of sleep, he cuts a tall but ultimately unimposing silhouette-- nosing through brambles and ferns, burrs stuck and trailing in his unkempt coat. 

A flash of motion guides his eye through the trees to a grey stranger, who's looking up at a particularly vocal squirrel. He approaches despite himself. The squirrel, either sensing Colin's presence or growing tired of his own polemics, drops an acorn and flees with a shudder of the branches.

Colin ducks, but its too late-- it hits his head with a small dink. More than anything, he's impressed with the accuracy. He smiles, sardonic, at the bobbing curl of the squirrel's tail as it disappears into the trees.