The most poetic thunderstorm I’ve ever seen was a midnight one over the old salt flats. The sky was a deep indigo, and the clouds rolled like wet wool, each pulse of light a cracked piano string. Lightning sliced across the horizon in a jagged rhythm, and the rain fell in silver sheets that seemed to hum a lullaby to the earth. I felt the pressure building like a heart about to explode, then release, and every crack was a whispered secret from the sky. It made me want to write it down on a torn page of my journal, even though I still refuse to put it on a screen.