The first crack of thunder
sends one dog scurrying
tiny paws, frantic heart,
vanishing beneath the covers
like a secret we pretend not to keep.

Rain taps at the shutters
like a memory
I haven’t quite made yet.
The kind that lives in muscle and mood
before it ever finds words.

The leaves sway lush, green,
resilient and resigned.
They’ve weathered worse,
they bend without breaking.
I take note.

The runoff hums along the sidewalk,
its gentle hush
soothes more than any lullaby.
Nature’s own white noise,
tailored for the pensive heart.

Thunder rolls in again
not angry, just emphatic.
It doesn’t ask for attention,
it demands presence.
A reminder from the sky
that we are not in charge.

I lie curled on the couch,
my limbs heavy, my mind
drifting between
alert and asleep.
There’s something comforting
about staying still
while the world moves outside.

I watch the same movie again
because some stories
are best told on loop
when the outside is chaotic
and the inside
needs predictability.

I love a summer storm.
But I never stop listening.
Never stop wondering
what’s next,
what waits in the quiet
after the thunder fades.

Dreamy. Drowsy. Slightly on edge.
I breathe in the petrichor
and whisper to tomorrow,
“Take your time.
I’m here,
weathering the now.”