Lightning (n.) is a threat and a failed attempt to strike home, while a lightning-bolt is the throw that does.
Lightning (n.) is a lightning-flash that has made it all the way to earth, and a lightning-flash is nearly a bolt: they differ not in nature but in force.
Lightning (n.) is subtle in a way that looks divine: it melts the coins in a box that stays whole, the sword inside an untouched sheath, the spearhead on an undamaged shaft.
Lightning (n.) spares what yields and shatters what resists: it passes harmlessly through soft things and forges its way through stone and iron.
Lightning (n.) is, for one old thinker, the first unsteady flame of a fire trying to get going, alternately dying down and flaring up.
Lightning (n.) is not the greatest danger you face but the showiest: you will be targeted by a sword, a stone, or bile.
Lightning (n.) zigzags because it is breath, and because nature summons fire upward while violence pushes it down: its crooked path is a quarrel between two forces.
Lightning (n.) is not hurled by Jupiter's own hand, yet nothing happens without the Reason that belongs to him.
Lightning (n.) is feared only after it has missed: no one has ever feared a bolt except the one that passed him by.