The best of the old world

Summer-night silence.

The earth waits-

and I.

The thunder stuns,

splits the darkness.

Lightning-sudden illumination.

Brighter,

more neon than day.

The dry grass, white-lighted,

does not burn.

Nor I.

Yet we of the earth

tremble.

The sky breaks open

then the downpour

Gift of heaven for this scorched land.

Our faces, our mouths, our skin 

drink in the rain.

Another flash.

One glance enough.

Indra, the best of the old-world gods

rides resplendent

among the darkened clouds.

Beautiful and dangerous.