Listening for a voice

You think you're listening for words, waiting for them to appear, but really you're listening for a voice, and only when you hear that voice can you hear the words.

It's a voice that whispers in your ear: "I am here. Are you ready?"

And if you're unprepared, not ready to record what you hear, you'll miss it, and the voice will fall silent again.

It's your voice and it's not your voice but all the voices you've ever heard.

And it comes not from some external source but from inside your inner ear, from some place deep within yourself that you can hear only if you're paying attention.

It sounds like the rush of waves rolling into shore or like the flapping of a bird's wings. 

It sounds like the wind blowing through trees, soughing, rustling leaves.

It sounds like rain falling gently on the roof or like the gentle echo of thunder after a flash of lightening.

Your words strike the page just like that flash of lightning.

And then the voice fades like thunder when it's done and disappears until next time.

And the only evidence of its presence are the words your pen leaves on the page.