Sufjan Stevens: All the Trees of the Field will Clap Their Hands
The spruce had walked for three weeks until, in darkness, she paused and fell asleep. The sky offered no moon. The only visibility emanated from the nighttime, blue-whiteness of soft powder. Upon waking, her needles were snowcovered. She did not shake it from her branches. The cloaked warmth of its weight made her feel cozy and snug. A squirrel snaked its way over her limbs momentarily, then scurried off. She peered across the field. Perhaps her son stood hidden amidst these others?
A white pine broke above the tree line. He would be The Wise One here. She must approach with caution and great deference. He was at least a century older than she. She took a deep breath, inhaling her own scent, and flexed her needles...
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