I never tire of lightning on a dark cloudy night.
Just to watch the rain pound down and watch the sheets billow & ripple across the electric black of night—thunder breaking open the skies, bouncing across the prairie floor.
The Lightning silhouettes the thickness, a portrait painted of the midnight gripping, terrified, to the shaking trees of summer.
Away slowly, those slipping rumbles. They tumble further and further, down the slow drip of night, drop by gentle drop—only to give one last low rumble—a flash—an echo—quiet—we all fall.