My window is a black rectangle at night.  When sitting on the couch the angle is enough to hide the lights of the town below, and only the cell towers lazily blinking – three red points, two white – on the distant hills that pass for river bluffs in this part of the world are visible.  When the night is overcast, these towers serve as poor substitutes for stars. 

Persistent flashes of bright white light observed from the corner of my eye distract me from the television.  There it is again, and again.  Lightning, nature’s strobe light.  A storm system is passing to the south.  Each flash lights up the night, backlighting wispy clouds passing between the storm and town.  Each flash throws into stark contrast for a few brief stuttering seconds the clouds that spawned it, providing enough detail for the eyes to feast on, but not enough to gorge themselves.  Their appetite is whetted, leaving them hungry to see more, and they will remain transfixed, waiting for the next unpredictable flash and another abbreviated second of exposed detail. 

The feast for the eyes is silent – at least, it can’t be heard over the sound of the air conditioning unit.  The storm system is far away, but the drama is clear.  In the thick of the storm the largest flashes will imitate daylight.  It will be accompanied by rolling waves of thunder that rattle a house and are felt in the chest.  A constant deafening static of heavy rain will beat on a roof. 

Perhaps the storm is not so very far away.  Occasionally the eyes are dazzled by the appearance of an abbreviated segment of a tangible bolt of light reaching from its parent cloud to the flat plains somewhere beyond the river bluff hills.  One memorable event showed such a bolt obscured at various levels by the clouds, like a tree’s leaves obscure a sturdy branch.  The eyes greedily exult in this delicacy. 

The storm is moving east, and the lightning goes with it.  I reluctantly return to the couch.  Returning has consequences.  I will not be able to see the detail of an illuminated cloud or experience the thrill of a lightning bolt spotted.  I am tempted to return to the window by the beckoning hand of continued flashes seen from the corner of my eye, but they are more distant, less impressive, and my black rectangle has its limits.  Lying down allows my attention to return to the flickering colors of the television as nature passes by my window.