They will call you Sun, Wind, Drought, or Rain, depending on the season of life they met you in.
Where I am from, we learn early that weather is less a fact than a feeling remembered. At home, the sky is never neutral. It leans heavy with opinion, blue like forgiveness one hour, then torn open by thunder the next.

People are no different.

With those you know and those you meet, you are not the storm they survived, nor the calm they prayed for. You are simply passing through, or maybe you will stay.
Some will say you are too loud, like cicadas in July, insistent and unapologetic in your presence. Others will lean toward that same sound as if it were proof that life goes on.

There will be those who shrink from you, as if your certainty were a warning siren, and those who gather close, finding shelter in the very same noise.

I have seen fences built for less, thin lines carved into red dirt by hands that needed dividing more than they needed truth. So let them speak. Let them measure you with their small rulers, let them carve you into shapes that fit their quiet fears.

The prairie does not answer to its observers, and neither should you…….be yourself!