Concentrated lightning creates energetic, gnarly, skeletal claws underneath both the stars and the bright, sickle moon; and generates bright varieties of barbed, puncturing exclamation marks, taking their time to bore into the ground ahead in the nearby southeast, while we drive home from Dodge City.
Continuous, heavy-duty flashes silhouette distant rain, passing trees, farmhouses, electric poles, and a line of thick, storm clouds—all appearing like on an old movie film, one frame at a time—a natural laser light show, just begging for dramatic war music to play with, since, oddly, it does not produce any booming thunder of its own.
After an hour, we arrive home safely, and the weather station talks about hail up to a quarter-coin in size pummeling the earth under those clouds.
We looked at each other, suddenly feeling fortunate—fortunate to watch a formidable display of power and might without having to experience the damage; a gift not often handed out to people.
TR