When I hear thunder overhead, I think of rain.
Summer rain, not winter.
The wind whipping the clouds along, pushing them, riding them in while we scramble to push lawn chairs and plastic balls into the shed before they blow away.
Warm, fat, heavy drops hammering my head and shoulders as I run between the car and the house.
Sitting in the car, in the house, in the office watching the droplets roll down the windows outside.
Canadian geese on the pond preening and washing in the sudden shower.
The wooden slats of the front porch swing at my godmothers’ house where we pushed off, back and forth, laughter and stories spilling out for an hour while we waited for the clouds to clear.
Thick, silken, humid air afterwards, wet enough to dampen your clothes even if you stayed out of the downpour.
The pinging of the tin roof at the old home place across the road from the farm (at my own house, the metal vent leading down to the kitchen stove).
The squish of my toes in the muddy earth after it’s over, the earthworms wriggling away from me back down into their tunnel homes.
And the sudden golden break of the sun back through the clouds after it’s all over.