Around four in the afternoon, August twenty, seventy-five,
A granite giant called Moro Rock scraped at the sky.
Up its steep spine climbed Michael McQuilin, just eighteen,
Young, fit, and fearless, a climber well-seasoned and keen.
Behind him trailed Sean, just twelve, and Mary at fifteen,
Their steps growing slower, their breathing not quite so clean.
The trail was short—just a quarter mile to the crown—
But steep as a wall where the mountain looked straight down.
Michael had crossed two hundred miles, Sierra Nevada alone,
So this was no challenge to muscle or bone.
Still, he knew his siblings weren’t born for the climb,
So he paused on the path and gave them some time.
As he waited, the daylight began to feel wrong,
The sky darkened quick, and the wind grew strong.
No storm was predicted, the forecast was clear,
Yet the mountain now whispered, danger is near.
He shrugged it off—just a pocket of air,
A passing disturbance, nothing to fear.
Then Sean and Mary came into view,
And together they climbed, the summit just minutes through.
At the top, the world spread wide, stunning and vast,
But the sky had turned black, the calm long past.
This wasn’t a drizzle, a momentary fright,
The clouds hung heavy, the darkness like night.
“Just one quick photo,” they decided to do,
No tripod, no group shot—what else could they choose?
So Mary stood back as the brothers posed,
Hair wild in the wind, unaware of what glowed.
She snapped the picture, then tucked it away,
They turned to descend and escape the day—
When suddenly everything flared blinding white,
A crack split the sky with thunderous might.
Michael was thrown, slammed hard to the stone,
The world spun sharp like splintered bone.
He looked up in panic, his heart in his throat,
And saw Sean and Mary struck flat where they stood.
Smoke curled from Sean’s back, thin and grim,
That’s when it hit him—they’d been struck by lightning.
Michael leapt up, amazed he could stand,
Mary rose too, shaking, her thoughts unplanned.
But Sean lay still, burned, broken, and pale,
The mountain itself seemed to mourn and wail.
They lifted him fast and raced down the trail,
Fear in their footsteps, hope thin and frail.
A car, a hospital, sirens and prayer—
And somehow, unbelievably, Sean was still there.
Burned but alive, against all the odds,
All three had survived the strike of the gods.
Yet that’s not the reason this story is told,
Not survival alone, though that’s worth its weight in gold.
It’s the photo Mary took moments before,
A warning the mountains would soon make sure.
In that frozen frame, the brothers stand,
Hair raised high, like grasping hands.
They’d laughed at the look, thought it funny and strange,
Not knowing the air itself had changed.
For when lightning is near and the charge fills the sky,
On exposed peaks where no shelter lies,
The air comes alive, electricity hums,
And your hair stands on end before the strike comes.
Now the Park Service shows that image still,
A lesson etched sharp by stone and will:
If your hair starts rising on a mountain peak—
Don’t laugh. Don’t linger. Move. And move quick.