It’s never heard, and keeps its distance,
never strikes a pig, a rosebush, or a barn.
A golfer on the green need not lie down
when it begins its horizontal crawl,
nor should the children scurry under trees
or swimmers panic as they head to shore.
Heat lightning happens over shoulders
in the middle distance, gleams the hills:
a shudder at the zinc-gray edge of daylight,
quietly assertive and yet indistinct,
a boom or tingle on the other side.
It’s always elsewhere, rarely worth a sigh,
yet vaguely present on the ghostly rim
of weary minds. At night, it sometimes flickers
on the wall like lurid, passing headlights,
but you say that no one’s really there,
no friend or enemy to call your name
outside the window, or to call you down.
It doesn’t really care much if you care,
make sacrifices, pray, or change your ways.
It’s glimmerings will find you unawares,
not ready to go home or go to sleep.
So just pretend it’s not your business
and walk away. Walk quietly. Walk on.