I read
somewhere once that there is no such thing as heat lightning. That the flickers
of blue-white on black are not just aphasic versions of what normally flashes
with bombast. That it is not just the heat of the sky scorching the sun after
dark. That it is just a faraway thunderstorm whose sound strains in vain to
reach but whose sight you catch through some system of relays and mirrors in
the clouds.
Still, I saw
the silent skies. I watched on some anonymous summer night, legs hanging off
the unfinished deck—for hours, it seemed—sucking up all the energy and not
wanting to go to bed. I saw the lightning coming home from grandparents’ house after
eating so many pretzels that my mouth burned with salt, the configuration of
clouds stifling thunder.
But it was no
magic trick. Just as no angels bowled in heaven, no God angry or weeping. Just
cold, hard science. But I still choose to hold heat lightning as a source of
wonder in this cold, hard world.
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