When the cyclone hit

The wind came and lift the roof up like an angry drunk would hold a table, just before tossing it aside.  Then came the deep, primitive groan of rending wood and scraping metal. The barn came down.  All the cows were out, put to pasture on the chance the wind would come thru.  

I huddled in the opening of the root cellar. My mother yelled for me to come down.  My father was off in some other field watching for the sheep.  I didn’t care.  I wanted to feel the wind tear my hair at the roots.  I didn’t care how loud she screamed. I didn’t care about anything but the wind.