March 7, 1993
Lying still, eyes closed, I feel rather than see the flash, sense the change in tones of light across my eyelids. I begin the unconscious counting, waiting for the ringing thunder -- one one-thousand two one-thousand three -- wondering where it hit, like scanning the sky for the end of a rainbow -- do they ever simply fall somewhere, like a gift in someone's lawn, a ribbon left untied, dangling loose? The thunder comes at last, I have lost count, and somewhere is a tree, burned to the roots, or a house, walls left singing by the blast, sockets flashing brief flame. Now I am unable to sleep, awed -- fearful of the burns -- I listen, wait, to feel-see the last blast, the final knocking of the storm.
© Jessica Minier Mabe