(Reno, NV) The thunderheads couldn’t make it over the western range, so they snuck around from the south and spread over us from the east. In sprawling layers, deep blue-black slate over the eastern mountains, thinning to white over us. Fierce winds aloft curled it back at its edge, driving it north.
A lowering sun lit the parched foothills like sand dunes against the storm. Whenever I see dried-out hills like these, covered in grass or desert scrub, I see lions, crouched, ready to spring. You can almost see muscles rippling underneath.