I remember staring west, waiting and watching as the sun dipped below the tree tops, below the street that curved to meet our driveway at the top of the hill. I heard it then — groaning, rumbling, rushing. At any moment, I expected to see great giants crash through the three line to trample my house and my family.
“Do you hear that?” I asked my brother. “It changes, but I hear it every night.”
“It’s just the trees growing,” my father said.
Later, I learned that, whether it was air masses colliding or the pounding of my pulse in my ears, the sound was thunder. Now, when I hear either one, I think, It’s just the trees growing, and I’m not afraid.