The thunder landed

It almost seemed that the fireworks over the night-black sea called the lightning. It flashed white and forked and curved and split and hissing hit the sea.

Then, the time for a breath that nobody took, the thunder rolled in across the flattened waves and shook the first, steep-fronted, houses.

The thunder landed on the roof like a rockslide. The now-dead light bulb swung as the flash through the shutters side-shadowed our faces.

Night storm. Tree falls.

Night storm. Tree falls. In the morning swingball stands disdainful, tosses its haughty mane. Of a single dog-chewed tennis ball on a frayed fluorescent nylon string. Tree stays down. Lies with lime-green plastic bats on the grass-green grass. Vanquished. Drums its twigs on the neighbour’s fence. Fence tilts but doesn’t fall. Tree sighs and settles. Waits.

Based on original observation by @johnhiggs