The thunder comes softly at first, but soon the rain pours down harder and the thunder gets louder and I run for cover. I grab my fishing poles, tackle box, net, backpack, duck for cover into the woods. I huddle beneath an oak tree as the sounds of the rain hitting the surface of the lake grow louder now, more intense.

Every now and then, between thunder claps, big droplets of rain fall from the oak leaves above, hitting my scalp like little liquid stingers. And then the rain tapers off and I think it’s going to stop, but then I hear the loudest thunder clap yet, followed by more rain hitting the water.

I take my arms out of my red-and-yellow jacket and pull it over my head, staring down at my dirty white socks, little flecks of green burrs on them. I flick them off as I hear the rain — get lost in it. It soothes me. And now the rain sounds like music and it’s like there’s a whole rhythm to it that I’ve never heard before. It’s like the thunder and rain are instruments and I’m part of it all.