after dinner on the porch was the best time, he and grandpa watching, waiting for the storms--a thunderclap the sweetest note to both of them
sheets of rain rolled across the big pasture, downdrafts made the boy shiver, even cradled in the old man's arms
neither would speak, grandpa's good arm would point, or wave, these movements a code between generations, theirs at least
finally a twister appeared in the west growing plumper as it spun across the fields, spitting gray dirt from its base, a zigzagging dancer without a care in the world
grandma and Aunt Helen fled to the cellar, imploring the pair to follow
though they didn't, for all their hours gazing at the heaving heavens would have been profligate had they hid in the ground, missing creation's greatest crescendoΒ Β
the angry funnel ate a section of fence wide as a football field, and felled a tree not a quarter mile from the house--its roots too shallow, grandpa thought
when the tempest passed, the sun made an appearance, slipping between the cloud bank that birthed the tornado, and the silent soil in the devil's wake
in its final moments, it glared at the interlopers on the porch, perchance admonishing them the promise of its golden rays was no sacred contract but a fickle gift