As the first light of dawn gently pushes the darkness away from the hills around me, I can see the glistening dew on the grass at my feet. Around me I hear the snorting and bleating of waking sheep. Slowly I rise from my log. A drink of water wets my throat. It is nearly time for my morning prayer.
Then, from somewhere, a noise reaches my ears. It is hard to pinpoint it's origin, but I don't need to. I know the people that make it. It is the sound of these hills, a song of my people.
I'm unsure how to describe it to someone that has never heard it. As it rolls over the hills, as it connects the valleys between them. A low sound, an almost primal sound. Interlaced, rising above hum, I can hear an almost whistling, throbbing note. My voice joins that of my brothers, together, in the song of the Khoomi.
