when he was young
just a small boy
he saw lightning
crash
to the ground
mere feet
from where he stood
in awe

it hummed
crackling
with lavender arcs
of molten sky

he could describe it
with the same intensity
a father
could recollect the face
of his baby
upon first glance
years later

if he could give
the bulk
of his fifty some years
since that image
for once more seeing it
he would
with no question

he tenses up
the microscopic nuances
of the shiting breeze
sending the hair
on his arms
to standing

he turns
his milky white
unseeing gaze
to the sky

a storm is coming
he whispers

but there is
no one else
around
to hear him