Why Does Lightning In Sky Flicker Over Cities More Often?

I love chasing storms on long summer nights, and yes—I've seen footage and read enough eyewitness reports to be comfortable saying that regular lightning can sometimes produce ball lightning near the ground. Most credible accounts describe normal cloud-to-ground strikes or strikes that hit structures/soil, and then a glowing sphere appears and moves slowly along the ground or even floats inside a building. There isn't a single, nailed-down mechanism, but the common idea is that the lightning channel dumps huge energy into soil, metal, or air, producing hot plasma or vaporized material that can form a luminous ball. One popular hypothesis involves vaporized silicon from soil oxidizing as tiny particles; another suggests electromagnetic energy (microwaves) becomes trapped in a plasma cavity, keeping it shining for a few seconds. From my point of view, two things are clear: ball lightning near the ground is rare and often fleeting, and it's unpredictable enough that you should treat any such sighting warily. I've learned that the coolest mysteries are also the most frustratingly stubborn—this one keeps me bookmarking new papers and storm-chasing blogs whenever a fresh report pops up.

I've always been the kind of person who drags a camera out into storms, half for the photos and half because it's thrilling to watch nature throw a palette at the sky. When lightning looks purple, it's not some mystical new element — it's a mix of physics and perspective. The lightning channel is a super-hot plasma that emits a lot of blue and violet light, especially from ionized nitrogen; nitrogen emits strong lines in the violet part of the spectrum. That bluish-violet gets altered on its way to your eyes by scattering in the air (Rayleigh and Mie scattering) and by any water droplets or dust it passes through. Another big player is color mixing. If the storm clouds are lit from below by orange city lights or a sunset, that warm glow can blend with the lightning's blue tones and produce purples and magentas. Cameras and our eyes also handle low-light color weirdly — some phone sensors pick up violet more strongly than our rods and cones do, so a photo can show a richer purple than what I thought I saw. Whenever I chase storms I try different exposure settings and pay attention to where the light is coming from; sometimes the purple is simply the blue plasma meeting an orange sky, and sometimes it's the atmosphere nudging the spectrum toward violet. Either way, it's a gorgeous reminder that weather is both chemistry and theater.

A storm rolled in while I was biking home once, and the sky split with a fork of lightning that made everyone on the street catch their breath. That flash is the same kind of moment that created myths across the world: sudden, terrible, and impossible to ignore. In Greek stories Zeus hurled lightning as proof of power, while in Norse tales it was Thor's hammer making the skies roar. Hindu epics give that role to Indra and his vajra, a weapon that shatters mountains and commands rain. Beyond the big-name gods, cultures get wonderfully specific. Japanese folklore has Raijin pounding drums to spark lightning, Chinese myths speak of Lei Gong and Dianmu as thunder and lightning attendants, and among many Native American tribes the Thunderbird is both omen and guardian, carrying lightning in its eyes. In West Africa and the Caribbean, Shango (or Sango) is the charismatic thunder god whose cult survived oceans and displacement. Even the Inca had Illapa, master of storms. These motifs—weaponized lightning, sky-spirits, ancestral wrath—repeat but adapt to local landscapes and values. I love that personal detail: an old farmer in a remote village might explain lightning as an ancestor's message, while a city kid knows Franklin for his rod. My suggestion? When thunderheads gather, ask around: someone nearby probably has an epic, practical, or comic story about why lightning splits the heavens. It makes the storm feel less random and more human.

Clouds can be thick enough to feel like a wall, but satellites absolutely do spot lightning inside hurricanes — I geek out about the GOES satellite loops for this. Geostationary sensors, like the Geostationary Lightning Mapper (GLM) on the GOES-R series, watch broad swaths of the Western Hemisphere and pick up the tiny optical flashes that lightning makes, especially the oxygen emission around 777 nm. Those optical flashes show up even inside the dense tops of hurricane clouds, and you can actually see patterns: inner-core bursts, eyewall activity, or lively outer rainbands. Those space observations get mixed with ground and other space-based systems. Low-earth-orbit sensors such as the Lightning Imaging Sensor (LIS) on TRMM and later on the ISS gave great high-resolution snapshots in the past, while global networks that sense radio pulses (WWLLN, GLD360, and similar) help find cloud-to-ground strikes and improve timing. The catch is resolution and viewing geometry: geostationary GLM sees continuous coverage but limits faint pulses, and sunlight or thick scattering can hide small intra-cloud flashes. If you like storm-watching, tracking GLM loops alongside radar gives a cool, almost cinematic view of how a hurricane breathes electrically. I tend to check those loops when a storm's predicted to intensify — lightning surges in the core sometimes hint at structural changes — so keep an eye on both optical and radio maps if you want the full picture.

Lightning and thunder are part of the same dramatic show in the sky, but the way thunder travels fascinates me every time I watch a storm. When lightning flashes, it briefly heats the air in its channel to extremely high temperatures — think tens of thousands of degrees Celsius. That sudden heating makes the air expand almost explosively. At first the expansion is so violent it creates a shock wave (like a tiny sonic boom) and that shock relaxes into the sound waves we hear as thunder. What I find neat is why thunder can be heard miles away. Low-frequency components of the sound lose energy much more slowly as they move through the atmosphere, so the deep rumbles travel farther than the sharp cracks. Atmospheric layers, wind, and temperature gradients bend and channel sound: a temperature inversion over a valley or the flat surface of the sea can let thunder carry unusually far. Multiple return strokes and the complex, branching shape of the lightning channel also spread out the timing of different sound sources, which gives thunder its rolling, rumbling character when echoes and reflections from ground and clouds join in. I often lie by the window during storms and count the seconds between flash and rumble — it’s a favorite little science trick: roughly five seconds per mile. It’s simple, tactile, and makes me feel connected to the mechanics behind the spectacle.

Sky science always fascinates me, especially when lightning seems obsessed with one spot. There are a few neat reasons for that, and they all come down to electric fields and convenience. First, tall or pointy objects concentrate electric fields at their tips. If a skyscraper, tower, or lone tree is much higher than its surroundings, it creates a strong localized field that encourages an upward leader to form from the ground toward the cloud. Once a channel is established, subsequent pulses of current (what we see as multiple strokes within a single flash) can follow that same ionized path, making it look like the same point gets hit repeatedly. Also, if the cloud has a persistent charge region directly above that object, the cloud keeps sending leaders to that optimal spot. There are also different types of strokes. Some flashes have many brief re-strikes because the channel re-ionizes easily, especially if the object is conductive or has sharp edges. Positive lightning, though rarer, carries a stronger punch and can also strike the same place more than once. That’s why lightning rods, proper grounding, and surge protection matter for buildings — they guide strikes safely instead of letting them punch random places. I always feel a little thrill watching storms now, but I’m way more respectful of lightning’s habits than I used to be.

Flying through a thunderstorm used to freak me out as a kid, but now I get curious instead of panicking. Planes do get struck by lightning—about on the order of once a year per airliner on average—yet those strikes are usually handled by the airplane’s design. The metal skin and conductive paths act like a Faraday cage: the current tends to travel along the exterior and exit at a trailing edge, leaving most of the inside intact. Manufacturers and regulators learned hard lessons decades ago, so modern jets have multiple protections. You'll see static discharge wicks on the wings, bonding straps on control surfaces, surge protectors for avionics, and special conductive meshes or foil in composite airframes. Fuel tanks are designed and inspected to avoid ignition risks, and some aircraft use inerting systems to reduce flammability. Pilots avoid the worst cells with weather radar and ATC, and after any confirmed strike the plane gets checked thoroughly. I still watch storms from the cabin with wide eyes, but knowing how much engineering goes into handling lightning actually calms me down.

Lightning absolutely can trigger wildfires in dry forests, and it's something I've watched happen from a safe distance more than once during storm season. When thunderclouds spit cloud-to-ground bolts, those strikes can pack enough heat and sparks to ignite leaves, pine needles, grasses, or the dry bark of trees. The scary part is 'dry lightning'—storms that produce lots of lightning but little to no rain—because each strike becomes a potential ignition point while fuels are tinder-dry. I've seen smoke start as a tiny wisp where a branch was struck; sometimes it smolders for hours before bursting into flames once wind picks up or the sun hits the slope. Duff layers, hollow logs, and tree cavities are especially prone to smoldering ignitions that can spread underground and emerge later, which makes detection tricky. Topography, wind, and recent fuel moisture all decide whether a single spark becomes a large fire. People often ask what helps: early detection systems, lightning-mapping networks, fuel reduction like prescribed burns, and paying attention to forecasts that warn of dry thunderstorms. For anyone camping or living near dry forests, the best move is to be aware, pack out flammable debris, and treat lightning storms with respect—I get a little jumpy when the sky flashes now, and that’s probably a good thing.