The wind rushes on the plain. Swaying to its magic is the whistle and tune of the wild. A lone tree stands in the middle of the moors bowing to it, dancing like it is searching for its lost soul.
Except her soul is not lost… the rustle of the breeze ever present on her now-twisted length reassures it. This is a tie that the willow has known for almost all its life, and she hears the celebration burst to life again.