Spring Storm in New Hampshire

I'm sitting in the living room,
stroking my dozing dog, then suddenly:
a flash of light in my peripheral vision,
so quick I might have imagined it.
Then I hear it:
Thunder crashes overhead, a canon shot
in the fading light,
signaling war.
The towering pines sway ominously,
as if possessed by some strange urge to dance wildly,
haphazardly, subject to the winds;
Rain pelts the windows, streaming down in a 
never-ending sheet, distorting the images I watch
through the glass;
Such terrifying beauty--I know not whether to
scream, or laugh, or run out into the rain
and join the frenzied dance, letting the water rush down my face;
yet I stay sitting there, entranced, gazing at the sky
(and it's probably for the better).
Then lightning blinds the world again,
illuminating the figures of puppet trees
flung about by the wind, then
the world is dark again...
Suddenly--
there is a gentler roar of thunder, and
the sky lightens ever so gradually;
then a gradient of gray-blue, fading lighter and lighter,
as the clouds slowly drift away
and the thunder's calmed to a distant purr;
and I sit there, entranced, at the world's changing form,
knowing not if I should sigh of relief, or mourn the passing storm;
But before I can decide, all that's left is a gentle, subsiding shower,
and the trees sway less and less to the sweeter tone of the rain,
and suddenly all is quiet again,
and I'm still sitting in the living-room
by the window-pane,
stroking my dog
as the evening light wanes.