clouds
Mira Wolters
2
The wind whispered through the tall grass, bending it in gentle waves, as Mira stepped out of her weathered wooden porch of her small homestead. The land stretched endlessly before her, golden fields rippling under the dying light of the sun. But it was the sky that held her gaze—the sky, vast and alive, unfolding its own quiet symphony.
Above the horizon, storm clouds gathered, deep and layered, like rolling mountains suspended in the heavens. Billowing anvil tops caught the last glow of sunset, turning shades of copper and violet, while below, darker masses brewed with electric tension. Mira traced the slow churn of the storm with her eyes, watching as distant lightning flickered, illuminating the clouds from within like some ancient heartbeat.
She had lived on these plains her whole life, rooted to the earth yet drawn to the sky. While others feared the storms, she welcomed them, feeling their presence like a familiar pulse in her veins. They were neither friend nor foe—simply a force, untamed and magnificent, existing beyond human reckoning.
A low rumble reached her ears, rolling across the fields like the voice of the deep. She closed her eyes and breathed it in, the scent of charged air, damp earth, and the promise of rain.
Mira had once tried to explain this feeling to others—the way the sky could make her feel both small and infinite at the same time. “It’s just a storm,” they’d say, shaking their heads. But it wasn’t just a storm. It was movement. It was life. It was the universe unfolding, moment by moment, in shapes and shadows too grand to name.
The first cool droplets touched her skin, carried by the wind. The storm was coming closer now, swallowing the stars one by one. She should go inside, but still, she lingered, unwilling to look away.
Because here, in the quiet before the storm, Mira felt something she could never quite explain. Something sacred. Something eternal.
