Waterspout

They called it a waterspout.

I remember the storm siren throbbing in the distance,

the rain quitting abruptly,

the sky turning drab brackish green,

and a sound like an approaching locomotive

drowning out the old weather-band radio’s drone.

I can still feel the strange

pressure that filled my chest and

our house’s groaning protest

as the wind howled in all directions

at once outside the narrow basement window

as if the whole world was tumbling around us.

Then suddenly it stopped.

And there was absolute silence.

We stepped outside into a still photograph of chaos,

Everything turned topsy-turvy but completely tranquil, motionless.

I smelled freshly churned soil and heavy ozone.

Trees were folded in half, roots towering a story high,

huge branches hurled into the neighbor’s house.

On the beach our ski boat had been picked up in its hoist

and set back down again on top of our dock.

At right angles and upside down.

Only the mechanical drone

…This is K-E-C-sixtyfive. Operating at a frequency of One-Sixtytwo-Point-five-five-megahertz…

of the weather band radio broke the stunned silence.