The storm that taught me to listen

Just got back from a long drive through the panhandle—nothing dramatic, just a slow-moving supercell that didn’t produce tornadoes but made the sky scream in shades of bruised violet and gold. I parked near an old grain silo, turned off the engine, and sat in silence for nearly an hour. The rain came in waves, not sheets—each one a different rhythm. I realized I hadn’t truly listened to a storm in years. Not like that. It wasn’t about chasing or capturing—it was about letting it pass through me. Felt like something cracked open, small but real.