One summer, a tornado passed over.
My aunt saw it first as the storm's black cloud encroached on the farm:
"Oh, my Lord, there's a tornado in that cloud!"
It had arrrived from the west on a late summer afternoon, unexpectedly, its approach obscured by a large hill. Dust, already rolling in waves, swept over my uncle running from the field where he had been plowing. Cousins, brothers rushed with our aunt for storm-cellar safety as the cloud overtook us.
In a moment of calm, as my uncle lifted open the cellar door, I raised my eyes to the cloud and saw it.
Only a hundred feet above ground, directly overhead, the funnel held me mesmerized in its turning, turning my excitement to fear, transfixing me in that spot.
Then, it was gone.
We hadn't even had time to descend into the musty dark cellar, so quickly did the storm pass over. No rain, no hail, no lightning, not even the expected, deafening roar.
Just dust, a cloud passing over, and silence.