Every poem about thunder was written under the protection of a roof, or, at the very least, an empty sky (poetry)

The sky may be empty, as clear as a crystal
And yet I do long, and have feelings quite wistful
For there's nothing so grand that fills me with wonder
Than the quiver I feel when I hear booming thunder!

First, smashing the silence, a sonic sound wave!
My heart skips a beat at the volume it gave
Then, slow and steady, and not at all rushed
A great rolling rumble, I stand still and hushed

So while I sit here under stained ceiling tiles
and have not a chance of counting off miles
I fear not a bolt that could blow me asunder
it is all but loss, that I feel not the thunder.