It is true that Sif has no mastery of her limbs in this state. It is a struggle to stop short of the tree, and she is not succesful in avoiding it completely. Her right side crashes into it, bark and dust clinging to her coat.

She can hear him, but his voice is only one noise in a myriad of them. The birds, the river, the grass itself. All the sounds of the forest assail Sif at once. She jerks her long neck about, trying to follow the threads.