Tickling the back of the neck,
Disturbing the too still air,
Brooding in silence still
Here on the top of the hill.

Burgeoning, the approaching storm
Clouds, far, but nearing,
Climb the ladder-less sky
To the west, to the south.

Air here does not move,
Stands somber, waiting,
Breathing in to hold,
Tense, anticipating.

Flash erupts up and down,
Meets mid-sky, burning,
Clapping air moves
Instantaneous implosion.

Vacuum reverberates,
Ripples fists of vibration
Out and out and out....
Thunder pounds the chest.

White light blinds and burns
The startled inner eye;
Black and purple threads
Visible in lidded dark.

Air escapes the lungs'
Gasped shock surprise...
Too quick for flight,
Too soon for fear.

The ears reverberate ,
Hammered hard within,
Ringing cacophonic
In remembered din.

Knees jellied move and turn
To take my body from the hill.
Alive, and stunned, I lived to learn
Lightning's not my kind of thrill.