-This poem reflects on heat lightning as one of summer’s distant marvels, where unseen storms flash at the horizon and fill the night with brief, silent power.
Far past the fence, beyond the trees,
the sky begins to speak in light,
brief silver opening the dark,
without a sound to name the storm.
The fields stay still beneath the glow,
the porch holds warm against the night,
and every flash along the rim,
feels distant, sudden, and withheld.
No rain has reached the waiting yard,
no wind has crossed the quiet leaves,
just this strange weather at the edge,
the world lit up, then closed again.
So much of summer lives like this,
not only in what comes to hand,
but in the far and flickering signs,
of power moving out of sight.