Wind

The Sky Wouldn’t Wait

/ Kelly Thomas / Leave a comment

I almost stayed inside.

That’s what sits with me now, more than anything else. How easy it would have been to just watch it through the window. To notice the color, call it beautiful, and let it pass without asking anything of me.

But the sky didn’t look like something you could witness halfway.

It looked like it was breaking open.

A thin line of fire at the horizon, orange deepening into red, red slipping into purple, like something alive and leaving at the same time. And there was this pull, quiet but certain, the kind that doesn’t wait for you to feel ready.

So I went.

Not prepared, not thought out. Just… as I was. The kind of leaving where you don’t stop to fix anything. Crocs shoved on without thinking, basketball shorts that made no sense for the cold, a thin hoodie that felt like a half-promise against 22 degrees.

I felt it the second I stepped outside.

The cold didn’t ease in. It took hold. Straight to my lungs, sharp enough to steal a breath and make me question it for a second. Just a second.

Because the sky was still burning.

So I ran.

Out into the back field, where the ground never quite holds you steady. Tall grass hiding every uneven step, fallen limbs waiting where you don’t see them. My shoes slipping just enough to remind me they weren’t meant for this, my legs stinging with cold that had nowhere to hide against bare skin.

I ducked under fencing that caught at my sleeves, pushed through lilac branches that scratched like they were trying to slow me down, like everything around me was asking if I was sure.

The wind met me head-on.

Thirty miles an hour of resistance, pressing into me, turning every step into effort. It felt almost intentional, like something trying to turn me back toward warmth, toward sense, toward staying.

And I didn’t have a good reason not to.

Just a knowing.

That if I stopped, if I hesitated, I would miss it.

And that felt heavier than the cold.

So I kept going, breath uneven, hands starting to go numb, hoodie doing nothing but reminding me how unready I was for this. Everything about me mismatched to the moment, like I had stepped out of one world and into another without warning.

But maybe that’s what it is.

The best moments don’t wait for you to match them.

They just happen.

By the time I reached the fence line, I wasn’t really running anymore. Just moving forward because I had already come this far, because turning back then would have meant carrying something I didn’t want to carry.

And then I saw it.

The horizon wide and open, nothing in the way. The sun slipping under like it was being pulled down, leaving everything behind in color. Orange into red into purple, folding into each other like they knew they didn’t have long.

The fence stood in front of me, steady, unmoving. The trees reached in from the sides, bare and quiet, like they were holding the moment in place.

And the sky just gave everything.

Not carefully. Not slowly.

It burned.

And I stood there in Crocs half-soaked from the grass, legs bare to the cold, a hoodie that never stood a chance, shaking from the wind and the weight of having made it there in time.

Not comfortable. Not steady.

But there.

And something in me settled in a way I don’t know how to explain cleanly.

That some things will never meet you where you are. They won’t wait for you to be ready, or warm, or dressed for it. They will exist fully without you.

And you either go to them, or you don’t.

I stayed until it faded. Until the colors softened, until the fire cooled, until the sky folded back into something quieter, like nothing had happened at all.

And the whole walk back, colder than before, slower now, I kept thinking about how close I came to missing it.

How easily this could have been a moment I only half-saw.

I think that’s what I’m trying to fight, in my own quiet way.

The version of me that stays inside.
That chooses comfort without question.
That lets things pass because they are inconvenient.

Because tonight, it was inconvenient.

And still, it mattered.

Not because it changed anything. Not because it fixed anything.

But because I was there.

Because I chose to step out into something I wasn’t ready for
to meet something that wouldn’t wait.

And maybe that’s enough.

Maybe that’s the whole point.

To keep going when something calls,
even if you’re underdressed,
even if you’re shaking,
even if it doesn’t make sense.

To meet the moment where it is,
not where it’s easy.

Because some things only exist out there,
past the fence line,
in the cold,
in the wind,
in the seconds before they disappear.

And I don’t want to keep missing them.

The Brutal Beauty of Winter

/ Kelly Thomas / Leave a comment

We’ve reached that part of winter where South Dakota stops pretending.

The forecast has settled into a long stretch of below zero temperatures, the kind of cold that doesn’t care how tough you think you are or how many layers you pile on. This cold is brutal. It cuts straight through coats and sweaters like they’re suggestions, not protection. The wind doesn’t knock. It slams into you, steals your breath, and leaves you staggering for half a second while it whips loose snow into tiny glass missiles that sting your face and hands.

Any exposed skin burns instantly. Not metaphorically. Actually burns. Raw and angry and aching within seconds.

The cold doesn’t stay outside either. It seeps through the windows, through the walls, through the cracks you didn’t know existed. It settles into every room like an unwelcome guest, making the idea of leaving a warm bed feel almost offensive. Even inside, there’s always a chill riding the air, a reminder that winter is very much in control.

This is the kind of cold that makes your whole body ache. Your nose runs, and before you can even wipe it, it freezes, an uncomfortable, ridiculous reality of arctic temperatures. If your gloves get wet, they stiffen and harden, crusted with frost, no longer flexible or warm, just cold armor against colder air. Everything feels sharper. Heavier. More exhausting.

And yet, somehow, this depth of cold brings beauty with it.

Winter sunsets feel more vivid, like the sky is making up for everything it’s taken away. Colors burn brighter and linger longer, purples bleeding into pinks and oranges in ways that feel almost unreal against the frozen landscape. The air is clearer, crisper, and the light carries farther.

Frost clings to trees and fences, delicate and quiet, turning ordinary branches into something almost sacred. Every twig is outlined in white, every field dusted and still. The world feels paused, held in place by ice and breath and silence.

On days like these, the sky sometimes gifts us sun dogs. They’re bright spots of light that appear on either side of the sun, caused by sunlight refracting through ice crystals suspended in the atmosphere. Basically, the cold is so intense that the air itself sparkles. Halos form. Light bends. The sky shows off.

I saw them on Saturday, soft and glowing, but the sky was thick with clouds and I couldn’t get a good photo. Still, just seeing them felt like a quiet reward for enduring this kind of cold. Like winter saying, I know this hurts, but look what I can do.

I hate this level of cold. I really do. I hate how it makes everything harder and slower and more painful, how it drains energy before the day even starts. But I love what winter creates. I love that even in the most unforgiving conditions, there’s still beauty pressing through, still light bending and colors burning and frost turning the world gentle.

Maybe that’s why it sticks with me.

Because winter doesn’t soften. It doesn’t apologize. But every once in a while, it lifts the veil just enough to remind us that even here, especially here, there is something worth noticing.

And I hope I see it again soon.

Color At The Edge Of A Barren World

/ Kelly Thomas / Leave a comment

Tonight’s sunset wasn’t the boldest I have ever seen.
It didn’t streak across the sky in wild ribbons of fire or paint the clouds in colors that demand you stop everything just to feel alive. But after a week swallowed by grey, a week of barren fields and frozen winds and a world that looked like it had forgotten how to breathe, this small burst of color felt like a hand reaching out of the cold.

The kind of cold we had today doesn’t lend itself to beauty.
It bites through coats and gloves and makes your eyes water the second you step outside. It turns every inhale into a sting and makes even short walks feel like a punishment. The days have been long and heavy, the kind where the sky barely changes and everything feels muted or asleep.

That kind of winter wears on you.
It settles into the quiet places.
It makes you wonder if the sun remembers how to rise for you at all.

So when it finally pushed through tonight, just a thin line of orange pressed against the horizon, just enough pink and gold to soften the clouds, I felt something loosen inside me. Not joy. Not relief. More like a reminder. A small, almost trembling insistence that even the bleakest stretches eventually break.

There is something tender about sunsets like this.
The quiet ones.
The ones that don’t announce themselves.
The ones that look like they are offering whatever little light they have left, hoping it will be enough.

It hit me harder than I expected.
Maybe because everything has felt so dim lately.
Maybe because I am tired in the way winter makes you tired, tired in the way that comes from carrying invisible things for too long.
Maybe because every day has felt like it blends into the next, all of them silver and silent and cold.

But tonight, the sky remembered color.

It was not spectacular.
It was not loud.
But it was present.

And presence alone can feel like a miracle after so many days of nothing but grey. After so many hours of wind that cuts through you and fields that look lifeless and mornings that never fully brighten.

I stayed longer than I needed to, watching the last thin glow disappear behind the line of trees. The air stung my face. The cold settled deeper. But it felt worth it.

Because even if tomorrow returns to grey, even if the frozen world closes in again, at least I had this one moment. This one quiet offering of beauty. This one reminder that winter does not get the final word.

For a brief moment, color pushed through the cold.
For a brief moment, the world softened.
For a brief moment, I remembered that I am still here too.