he used to sit up at night and watch across the valley to see where the lightning struck. but only on stormy nights. when there was good lightning. otherwise hed sit in bed and listen to the thunder, curling himself up in the comforter, trying to feel himself in the rumble. in the mornings hed head out across the valley, and up the hills on the other side. hed hop out of his little truck, the one with all the dents, and no tailgate, and two busted out taillights. hed hop out and inspect the hill, looking for any sign of the lightning bolts that looked so violent the night before. hed find things every so often, maybe a burned out bush or two, sometimes a shitty little tree with its trunk split wide open. hed stare at the charred remains for a moment or two, sometimes taking a couple of pictures, then hed hop back into the front seat of that tattered blue pickup, and hes just sit. hed sit there and look back out across that valley to where his house ought to be. hed think of the lightning, wonder why it never seemed to come to his side of the valley. hed think of the rain, where the fuck was it. he could always see it in sheets from miles away, but it never seemed to get to his house. thered just be the rumble and sheets of lightning, never bolts. he was upset with the storms. why couldnt they pay him some fucking attention. but he never said anything up on that hill. hed just sit for a while, then crank that truck up, sometimes more than once, stubborn piece of shit, and roll it back down the hill. he tacked the pictures of bushes and trees to an old cork board in the kitchen. hed pray in front of that cork board every night, then hed go lie down in bed, and hope to hear the rumble.