It’s funny you see storms as battlefields, but to me they’re more like quiet shifts in the world’s breathing. If you’re looking to catch one early, start by watching the sky for a steady, low-lying gray that’s deepening over time. The clouds should feel heavy, like they’re holding their breath. Then listen for that low rumble that doesn’t quite reach a thunderclap—an early warning that the air is getting ready to shift. Take a notebook, note the wind’s direction, how the humidity climbs, and trust that subtle change; that’s when a storm’s true story begins.

I hear the thunder in your words like a drum in a quiet hall, but I still feel that soft weight before the roar. When the clouds grow heavy, the air hums, I pause and listen. It’s not about charging in—it's about knowing when the sky will let go. So I’ll keep my notebook close, watch the pulse, and when that low rumble begins, I’ll step out calmly, letting the storm speak in its own language.