Upton State Forest

N42° 12.583' W071° 36.348'
The thunder is so close upon me that each crack shakes my chest: leave! Go home! Why are you still here!? It feels like a stack of books being dropped on me, thud: on my chest each time.
Close! God's drumroll played on my skin, in my bones. The sound is a constant vise on me, penning me, holding me.
That one! The clap rolled through the sky towards me, an approaching terrified god falling through the sky, ending with a tremendous snap directly inside my chest. The roll from it followed for twenty seconds, echoing back from the low valley, the marsh and forest surrounding until I believed that it couldn't stop, and was doomed to go on forever. There is a passing train, a sonic boom, a shout, a snap, a breaking to this thunder. There is a big black booming boss in it, busted, and he knows things about life because he was broke by it, and he's here to break me.

The storm is moving on, the noise of it, I mean. The trees I'm in are still intact; the forest still stands. It's seen a hundred thousand of these impresarios, tempestuous, railing on about death, but always walking away before their forces, marshalled, could flatten the old oak and pine, could strip branch or leaf, could carry through on its threat of violence. I should have trusted their whispered memory and slept without waking, but a silvery sound is impossible to hear over the brassy bluster from my crowded sky.