There was no question at all of a tornado this morning; it was not that sort of tempest. Peering through the window at the flying debris, we anxiously inspected the clouds; billowing crimson and purple and eerily bright, sweeping across the sky as if the wind envied the raging mountain rapids. What my half-awake midwest heart had hoped to be the sound of rain was merely flotsam and jetsam, tin cans blown against stationary objects and the sounds of the construction site in a dry, midwinter storm. I considered my options. The storm was not wild enough to warrant moving to the basement for safety, but the howling wind and clanging rubbish justified the closing of the window, at least so my roommate could sleep.
So I lay, typing in the dark, the sun slowly rising and calming. It blows more gently now, as I sit in the soft light. The phantom, the mysterious night storm, is no more. I wonder if anyone else was awake to view the beauty of the prairie winds.