The hour before a thunderstorm has a weight to it

There's a kind of silence that comes right before a storm breaks — the birds stop, the air goes still, and you can feel something about to change. I sat on the porch tonight with my coffee going cold and just let it sit in me. Grief's like that lately. Less of a wound than a workshop now — same spoon, same silence, but the hole's become something I can shape and sit beside instead of falling into.