The First Thunder

The air had been heavy all afternoon, the sky painted in deep hues of gray. I could feel the weight of an impending storm, though the earth beneath my feet was still dry. Then, as I climbed a sloping hill, it came—a distant, rolling growl across the heavens.

The first thunder of spring.

An old man stood at the hilltop, leaning on a wooden staff. He turned toward me with a knowing nod. “Spring wakes with a roar,” he said, eyes scanning the horizon.

I stopped beside him, watching the sky shift, the wind carrying the storm’s scent. “It’s different from winter’s silence,” I said.

He smiled. “Because winter teaches us to endure. But spring? Spring teaches us to move.”

As the wind picked up and the first raindrops kissed my skin, I felt it—something stirring deep within, answering the call of change.