Coming Through the Night

By Peter Bowden

The storm had come in the night. It rattled the windows and swept across the roof like something searching. Rain fell hard and straight like nails. But by morning, the wind was gone and the sun broke through, clean and white. The ground was slick with puddles, and the trees dripped slow and steady. A bird called out, sharp and alive.

He stepped outside and breathed the new air. It smelled of wet earth and pine. Everything felt closer and quieter, as if the storm had taken away the noise of the world. The dog ran ahead, chasing nothing, happy for no reason at all. He smiled and did not think much, only felt the warmth of the sun on his face and the soft squish of mud beneath his boots.

There was coffee on the stove and eggs in the pan. He looked out the window as he ate. The road was still wet but the sky was clear. He would fix the fence later. For now, he sat and drank and listened. The house creaked, the trees whispered, and something inside him eased. It was good to be after the storm.

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