Souther Utah Storms

153 Souther Utah Storms J. D. Olenslager Sometimes in the summer, the lightning doesn’t arrive until two a.m. The sky is like obsidian, or black marble suddenly hewn down the center. I always think of Michelangelo. The fat, white veins. The air bristling under the action of protons and electrons. It is like a vacuum, and everything is silent. The storms last an hour, moving slowly, fighting and flashing with the night, the bright-brilliant strikes flaring in my eyes. I watch from the front deck, the glassy shadows and fierce iridescence slashing at each other. I can’t stop watching and lean on the rail until the air returns, until the final bolt has vanished back into the black. Then I remember to breathe again. I am usually alone, thinking about the way life works. But once after the display had ended and I’d turned to leave, I saw my father sitting in our rocker on the far side of the deck, silhouetted against the light. He’d watched the entire time without saying a thing. ...