Grandpa stood at the window above the sink, one hand braced on the frame, staring out at the western sky.
When I joined him, I saw why.
The clouds weren’t just gray. They were layered thick and low, like slabs of dirty steel rolling over the Bighorn foothills. The last light of afternoon was disappearing behind them, swallowed so fast it felt wrong for early December.
“It’s coming quicker than they said,” he murmured.
The weather radio had warned about a winter storm all morning, but around our place people didn’t panic over forecasts. They listened, nodded, and got to work. Storms came. You fed stock, brought in what mattered, and waited it out.
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