How lovely are your branches

The world of giants was terrifying and strange, where lands had places where no trees gew, and he skirted around those as best as he could. He was already missing home, and his heart felt like it was constantly beating quickly.

When he came to a little forest, he was happy to see it, and he clung to the trees, barely touching the ground, hunting squirrels in their branches, swinging, climbing, jumping his way around.

When he found the tree, he knew it was special. He knew it was something monumental and wonderful. He had to land and scurry up its branches, and they stabbed and stuck to him as he shoved his way through the thick canopy. He had stumbled over the presents at the bottom, and he wond his way through the strange shiny things that clung to its branches. At last, he was near the top, with the smell of spruce in his nose, warming him.

When he heard the cry of a bird, he was just considering lunch, when he heard the sounds of wolves crashing through the land, he stilled, hugging the tree, deep among its branches, high as high could be. He was still and quiet, and he could barely see a thing through the leaves. He could hear the wolves as they stumbled upon his tree, and debated what it was, and why it was here. His lip curled back in a silent snarl. This was his tree. The giants of Boreas couldn’t have it! His fur stood up on end, and his tail lashed silently behind him, but he did not move otherwise. He kept still and silent among the branches, he knew he was terribly out numbered and could only imagine how tall and wild these stupid wolves where.