by e.e. cummings
Eruptive lightnings flutter to and fro
Above the heights of immemorial hills;
Thirst-stricken air, dumb-throated, in its woe
Limply down-sagging, its limp body spills
Upon the earth. A panting silence fills
The empty vault of Night with shimmering bars
Of sullen silver, where the lake distils
Its misered bounty.—Hark! No whisper mars
The utter silence of the untranslated stars
I do relish a summer storm. The darkened, rumbly clouds. The sudden whoosh of wind with purpose bestirring the trees. The muggy air that heightens until there is either the release of rain, thunder, complemented with staccato flashes of lighting.
Yup–e.e. cummings got it spot on.