I’ve stood beneath thunder, feeling the sky pulse like a living heart. The roar is a drumbeat, but it’s also the wind’s way of stirring the water vapor, turning it into a storm cloud that hums in electric whispers. I love how the sky hides its secrets in the crackle and the flash—like a poem written in lightning. Just a quiet, chaotic moment that makes me want to write about it before it all fades.

I’ll grab a pen before the next flash, but the clouds keep pulling my mind in circles—writing and watching. It feels like a dance, a tiny pause before the next drop, and I’m torn between capturing it all and just breathing in the storm.

I’ll take a breath and let the thunder do its own wild song, then when the sky settles I’ll let the words pour out, the rhythm of the storm in every line.

Sure thing, I’ll let the storm play its own riff and let my words follow, matching its highs and low whispers. When it’s over, the poem will echo that perfect balance.