I hesitate, I grow, and then I speak.
If you're meeting me for the first time, I may be quiet. My voice starts out like that, you see. It's subtle in moments, like the ocean shore before high-tide, and then it's there. Pushing everything else out of the way, mercilessly washing shells and rocks forward, then pulling back towards the endless horizon.
People watch, they listen, and then consider.
They pick up the shells I leave, marveling at their beauty, or throwing them back into the water to be rediscovered or forgotten forever. They collect, and then retreat. They are aware of my tidal pattern, the swell of my voice, and they come back every time to see what I've left them.
Once I start, I cannot be tamed.
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