The Soft Thunder of the Sky

By Peter Bowden

The clouds moved like great caravans across a cobalt sea, trailing veils of light and shadow across the tiled rooftops below. The sun played hide-and-seek behind them, casting the world in moments of brilliance and quiet hush. From the emerald crowns of the trees, everything seemed paused, listening, as if the sky had a story it was about to tell.

He stood in the yard, face turned up, heart turning slowly in his chest like a clock winding backwards. The air smelled of cut grass and sun-warmed clay roof tiles, and the breeze whispered things he hadn’t heard since he was a boy—things like summer is almost here, and today is a good day to remember the names of clouds. He didn’t know the words, but he felt them, and that was enough.

Somewhere deep in the soft thunder of the sky, he imagined voices—perhaps his own from long ago, or ones not yet spoken. They told him not to rush. That the best days often arrived like this: unscheduled, quiet, watched from the garden while the heavens passed overhead, busy with their own errands, and beautiful enough to bring a man to stillness.

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