Hushed Willows [m] high on the hill where the foxhorns blow

It was true, how he yearned for a family to call his own.
He found himself often daydreaming of big, brown eyes looking for him in the reeds, the squeaky laughter as he tosses a pudgy figure over his shoulders. Of first hunting trips, of the trill of cicadas at a rendezvous.
Someone calling him dad.
And she wanted this too, his wife; his partner. But not everything was so simple. His chest tightens. We'll talk to a midwife, and we'll assess the risks, a chill works its way down his spine. Was it worth it? The hypothetical, this image of children with his eyes and her smile; he reaches for it oh-so longingly, but he did not think he could forgive himself if that life meant only seeing her again in the golden flecks encircling irises; only hearing her voice in the hum of young voices.
Decidedly, he would think about this later.
We've got a lotta markin' to do, baby. He motions her forward with a sweeping motion of a forelimb.