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.