Hushed Willows in-depths

his people were not alone in the call. never before had he felt the instinctive, magnetic pull to tell the whole world that this land was theirs; his; it was as if something inside him had clicked.
his legs carry him without input from the rest of his brain. a pace, before he settles into a halt at the edge of the frozen pond, the heart of the meadow. the wind is biting as his head tips toward the sky amid the rallying chorus of voices. siren-like, haunting, deep — a sore thumb among the rest.
his own voice. his own claim.
mine.