The storm is not long passed. A muggy day, building to the break. Two hours of thunder, darkened skies and flashes of lightning. I watch my friends in nearby Dundee share pictures of walnut sized hail, as the streets flash flood. Here, the hail is less extreme. I was going to listen to an earlier pass but heeded warnings of lightning - the air had felt static. Now, it's calm and everything is soaking. I'm just at the back door again, laptop inside, antenna outside. Leaves are splayed widely after being pummeled by the downpour. My neighbour's back door is also open and I wonder what they'd say if they popped out now. The sound of NOAA-15 merges with the dance music on the radio in my kitchen. I look up at the clouds, patchy, the sun is a low orange glow. The neighbour's aerial pokes out from the building. There's something about the switch in scale that always hits me, from my domestic interiority to beyond, from below to above the clouds. I come inside just in time: I write this the rain starts again, straight and heavy. Catching these moments, I'm feeling melancholic, thinking on the thinking and writing this practice has sparked, the sociality of it. The influence of doing this over the last 5 years I find hard to measure.