Warmth rose from the hot sand underneath the child as she lay fully clothed on the beach. The sun, brilliant and high, penetrated through her clothes pouring heat into the empty nest of her heart. She had covered her face by pulling the black felt hat forward over her eyes, nose, and mouth. Even when she opened her eyes she swam in dark nothingness, a warm dark void. She was at the very center of everything, hovering between the earth and the sun on an endless carpet of sand. 

The sounds of gulls, the cutting wind, the crashing waves fused into a reverberation of galaxies being born, meteors exploding into stars, blackholes as portals sucking all that matters into other dimensions.  

In the farthest reaches of that vast emptiness, she heard a voice. It was singsong and feathery like the sound of aspen leaves shimmering on high mountain peaks. She held her breath, opened her ears wider, and stilled her heart.

In that space made from listening, a picture formed of a dove gliding down onto a thin wire with wings angled stiffly upward, legs reaching forward, tiny talons stretched. The wings fluttered rapidly as she balanced herself on the line. Across space and time, a garland of sounds streamed and fluttered from the tip of each feather finding their way into that tiny nest in her beating heart giving birth to the words, “You are loved?” 

~This short piece came out of a prompt from a writing group I participate in called The Narrative Method. I am so grateful to have found a community focused on the joy of creative expression through words for the sake of curious creative play rather than a construct of critique and comparison. If you are curious about your process and the muse within, I highly recommend.