The Storm

By Peter Bowden



The clouds came in low, like a hand pulling a dark sheet across the sky, folding light into shadow. In the field, the hay bales stood still, round and patient, as if they’d seen this before and knew the rain would come fast and hard. The wind hadn't spoken yet, but the silence was tight—coiled, expectant. Somewhere in the treeline, a hawk called once, then went quiet.

He stood by the fence, the rough cedar post against his palm, watching the line of storm move like a slow beast across the land. This was the kind of weather that made men remember things they hadn't meant to keep. His father used to call storms like this “Sunday judgment,” the kind that cleared the air and the soul whether you were ready or not. The scent of cut grass and ozone hit his nose like a warning and a blessing.

He didn't move until the first cool drop kissed the back of his hand. Not fear, not urgency—just a quiet surrender to the rhythm of it all. The land would drink, the sky would roar, and by morning, the field would steam under the rising sun like breath from the chest of the earth itself. Some things, he thought, don’t need fixing. They just need standing still long enough to witness.


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