One morning, in the wee hours, before the sun thought about rising, I was up enjoying my “me” time. I was journaling – goodness knows I had a lot to journal about. At the time, there were issues with the children that worried a mother into ulcers. Off in the distance I heard a voice. I looked outside, but the voice was too far yet for the person to be seen. It grew clearer. Still no one visible. Louder and clearer, I could finally distinguish the sounds of the voice. It was a Native American singing in his native tongue. The sound was as clear as lead crystal. The resonant voice was like no other I had ever heard before. It was a man’s voice, yet so clear and unfaltering that it could not have been too old of a man. Yet, the experience in the voice made it so pristine that it could not have been too young of a man. Perfection – spine tingling perfection cannot describe the voice well enough. I continued running from window to window and could not find this singing man. Finally I ran out to the porch where the direction of the sound was more discernable and looked that direction only to find the sound dimming and fog rolling in.