palace of winds

The thunder comes in deep, rumbling rolls, the sky waking from winterlong slumber and stretching, slow and luxurious. A sound that goes all the way down to bone.

My childhood memories are filled with thunderstorms, with skies split apart and raging, light licking fast between the clouds. There seems so much less of it now, though that could be a MO/MN thing, or the past just a trick of memory. I wonder about that sometimes, about the way the mind slips, the truths it crafts for itself. What to believe? Maybe it’s that I’m older now, and nights like these hold no terror and cannot cut down into me.