MARTHA TUTTLE:

My mother tells me of climbing a mountain when she was my age, during a period of drought. She picked up a rock from which she heard a buzzing sound, as if there was an insect trapped inside of it. Looking up, she realized she had in fact been surrounded by a storm cloud. She ran down the mountainside, her braids standing up straight. The electricity of the lightning as it prepared to take form caused the vibration in the molecules of the stones, and the static in her hair.

HENRY CHAPMAN:

We could see storm clouds in the south when we arrived, and streaks of grayish rain beneath them that Margaret said are called virgae. We drove past a bus depot and an old school bus that seemed to be a convenience store, shuttered. A few miles west was the earth ship, a squat, irregular cabin made of wood, concrete, glass, and tarp. We arrived at sunset and sat watching the sky, its color turning between orange, purple, and brown. Margaret stood on the wood bench and took a few photos with her phone, but it didn’t really translate.