11/07/2026
Thunder rolls across the earth with the weight of giants dragging stone tables through the halls of heaven. The sky flickers from iron gray to ghostly blue, as though some unseen hand keeps throwing a cosmic switch between worlds. Clouds race across the horizon in wild procession, then suddenly converge above the old pecan trees, colliding into a terrible stillness—the eye of a thought too vast for words.
I stand beneath it, caught between instinct and awe. Fear coils in my chest, yet wonder widens my smile. The air tastes of rain and electricity, of something ancient awakening. Every leaf trembles with anticipation. Every shadow seems alive.
The storm gathers itself like a living thing, drawing breath before it speaks.
And I welcome it.
For my name, in the old Gaelic tongue, means terrible storm—not merely weather, but a force that reshapes the world. So I stand in the darkening yard as the heavens assemble their armies, feeling less like a witness than a daughter answering a distant call.
Let the thunder shake the bones of the earth.
Let the lightning carve white scars across the sky.
Let the wind bend the trees until they sing.
I watch the oncoming calamity with a grin I cannot suppress, because somewhere in the roar above, I hear my own name being spoken.