Thunder is rumbling.
My dog is glued to my leg.
The house is buttoned up. Candles are lit.
There is something about the first thunderstorm of the year (in March?!) that brings back body memories of summers gone by. Usually I hear the rumbles and rain and am transported to the cabin, where I spent most of my summers growing up.
The sound of rain on the roof of the cabin or the bunkhouse was and is some of the finest music I know. Rain meant cards and books and nesting.
So tonight, Zoe and I will follow time-honored tradition.