I’m tall and green and smell so fine, At Christmas time you make me shine. With needles sharp instead of leaves, What kind of tree am I, do you believe?

The sleeve that shrouds the hoard, Preferred to be ignored. A mist of sting or essence spent, I'm put out to pasture when my armor relents.

A musician that travels the land. In a large band, some of us may greedily jump and fly and bring despair.

I burn the sky in crimson hue, then quietly bid the day adieu. A final glow before the night, a fading breath of borrowed light.

I follow the rider but never wear spurs. I lengthen at sunset, vanish at noon, and in the high desert, I can outrun you soon. A cowboy trusts me, yet I never speak lose me at night, and the trail grows bleak. What am I?