During the Storm and After

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The windmill howled like a man being boiled alive, blades turning fast as an airplane propeller, dry  gears gnashing as the  fan-tail whipped  against the fresh black gale. A moan of the tornado sirens in town started up, fought the wind to drift across the fields to my porch where I sat in my cane-back chair leaned against the shake shingles.

I took a pull of whiskey and thought about death in general tornadoes in particular. I wasn’t afraid of either in those days, my reason being that they stood on the opposite ends of predictability and thus cancelled each other out.