Summer Storms at the Shore There’s a very specific kind of tired that only comes from a full day in the ocean. Salt still in your hair. Skin warm and a little sunburned. The outdoor shower rinses the sand away, but the smell of the sea stays with you. The night is thick and muggy, the kind where the air barely moves. You walk the boulevard for ice cream. Maybe a round of mini golf. Nobody is in a hurry. Somewhere far away, thunder rolls. A thin flash of lightning crosses the sky, so you wander down to the bay where the swings sit by the water. The storm moves slowly across the dark surface, lighting the horizon every few minutes. On the island the thunder sounds different. It travels across the water and echoes in a way it never does at home—deeper, louder, almost theatrical. Eventually the lightning gets close enough that it’s time to leave. Back to the little cottage. Windows open. No air conditioning. Just the breeze and the storm passing overhead. By morning the air is cooler. The beach is quiet. The storm has scattered its small gifts along the wrack line—shells, bits of sea glass, maybe a horseshoe crab molt. For a little while, before the chairs and umbrellas appear, it feels like the island belongs only to the tide again.

Naturalists everywhere — report in. What sign of spring have you noticed this week where you live? Frogs calling? Buds swelling? Migrating birds? Let’s see how spring is moving across the map.