"I met a lot of trees and sat beneath many a roof of leaves,
some flushed with the last of autumn's red,
some bare and cold, awaiting Spring,
some crowned with green and lots'a blossoms.

We spoke of things in dreams and orisons,
of winds and weather, birdsong and bees
but them all grew cagey and shy
when I asked 'em about Losi'al's plea.

What Canopy first heard us sing and crowded close
Was it the Aalen's boughs, buried beneath half a century of grief?
Was it some other copse, huddled past all inquiry?

I aint no singer but I thought to dance,
to let my tambourine chime as I spun around trunk and branch,
the drumbeat of footfalls, the swish of skirts, the little joys of twinkling bells.

And the birds joined with their twittering, and the wolves with gravelly howls,
but though them all did listen,
and gave me my fill of many a sweet fruit in return,
none spoke of what I hunted, nor in dreams,
nor in song,nor in vision mushroom-sought.

Are ya out there, still listening?
Is our song a hushed gossip between rustling eaves,
from branch to branch, from spring to spring?

You gave us your tongue,
and named us yours,
and so we sing, and so we dance,
in memory and hope, in defiance and gratitude

The Song of the Canopy endures, though it wanders afield."

Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 14th of Variach, in the year 510 MA.