When pristine snowfall turns the earth into a magical wonderland, the mighty nation of the evergreens come into the height of their splendor.
Whither spruce or cedar or pine, these dark visaged sentinels brood upon winters frozen landscape like the archangels of the season.
These who are the most ancient of the vast nation of tree beings have survived to be reborn again and again after each incursion of life's nemesis, the powerful glaciers. The imperial nation of the evergreens do not succumb to the harsh rule of winter but thrive in spite of it.
Whether standing in pervasive solitude on some rocky out cropping of land or gathered in a sacred conclave on some ancient hillside, these noble giants hold themselves aloof from clutter of the human world preferring instead to confer with the passing clouds and the errant wind.
The winds of the four directions each in turn visit often the clan of the evergreens whose branches are so conductive to the creation of music that is like no other in all the world.
At times the sound of the winds are a melancholy one. At other times the song becomes a wild and primitive lament and then again is a gentle crooning lullaby that invites reverence to enfold those who pay heed to it.
I stand in awe before the profound beauty of these ancient and enduring archangels of the winter hills.
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