Driving Into It

It wasn’t the kind of day that demanded attention.
Overcast, but not heavy. Warm, but not hot. The clouds had no edge to them — just a stretched, featureless white that made the whole day feel a little on pause.

I wasn’t heading anywhere specific. I don’t drive to get things done on days like this — I drive to get away from things that aren’t. Sometimes it’s enough just to move. Sometimes I see something worth pulling over for. Usually, it’s both.

I followed the kind of roads that open up the farther you go — long stretches without interruption, where fields roll out wide and the horizon actually feels like a place. Nothing pressing behind me, nothing urgent ahead. Just a car, some quiet, and the sense that maybe something unexpected might show up if I kept going.

The sky started to shift, almost imperceptibly.
No storm. No warning. But there was movement. Something dropped slightly out of the cloud deck — too slow for smoke, too straight for a shadow. It didn’t twist. Not right away. But it had shape. Purpose. Like it was thinking about becoming something else.

I didn’t stop. Just steadied one hand on the bottom of the wheel and the other around the phone. I use an external shutter — Adonit makes it — clips on the case and gives me a real button to work with. Better than tapping the screen. Easier to stage a shot while still moving.

I framed it quickly.
Pressed once. Maybe twice.
And kept driving.

What the forecast missed, the sky didn’t.

It wasn’t a solid sheet of cloud — it was restless. Layers pushing and folding, light diffused but still sharp enough to feel unnatural. Rain had passed, but the air hadn’t settled. And the wind — you could see it in the trees, in the way they bent unevenly, like they weren’t all getting the same instructions.

When the funnel appeared, it didn’t twist violently or scream across the sky. It simply was — descending slowly, with intention. Like it had been there all along, waiting for the right shape to take.

I didn’t stop the car. Didn’t even think about it.
Left hand low on the wheel, right hand holding the phone, thumb resting on the external shutter button clipped to the case. It’s a small thing, that button, but it matters. It makes the difference between fumbling and composing.

And yet — in that moment — I wasn’t really composing. I was just reacting. The wind outside was loud, visible. But I couldn’t hear it. Not over the sound of my own pulse, which had moved somewhere behind my ears.

I framed. I clicked.
And I kept going.

Later, I looked at the photo and knew it wouldn’t end up in a gallery. The composition wasn’t clean. The lighting was off. The rain on the glass blurred things that probably shouldn’t be blurred.

But none of that mattered.

Because what could’ve been a forgettable day — the kind that drifts by without leaving a mark — suddenly felt like it had weight. Not because I captured it perfectly, but because I was there for it. Because I saw it.

Photography didn’t make the moment real — the moment already was. The camera just let me hold still for a second while everything else moved.

The sky let go. The wind eased.
And the sound behind my ears faded out with the road.