We sit together for a long while
in the north bedroom,
sifting through the thoughts and the day
while lightning plays along
the western edge of the dark slate cold front.
Somewhere in between words
about horses and church,
children and parents,
work and retirement,
a long firing
runs a white-hot wire
all across the northern sky:
a horizontal line
with the occasional spike to earth,
if something that lasts less than a second
can have anything occasional about it.
A bit later
the thunder comes rumpling along,
shuffling its way through clouds and rain,
an ungentle refreshing of the pasture.
And then, mid-sentence,
a closer flash turns the whole night white,
bright enough to shut off the neighbor’s pole light,
a tiny hint of heaven telling us
that it will take more
than the trivia of our technology
to outdo glory.
that one day
something like the lightning shining
from east to west
will tell us that all of night