A Manchester Storm.
Power lines go down. Lights and computer screens go black without permission. Boughs and limbs will litter the streets in the morning.
And the rain. The rain blitzes the northern face of the house. Each drop is a kamikaze pilot, welcoming its obliteration against the glass panes and wood panels. The wind is so strong that I can see the neighbors’ shingles begin to peel back. It drives the water through the tiny seams around the windows, through the attic venting. It separates, flows into channels so small that we never think of them, then reforms in rivers flowing across the floors. Dripping through the ceilings. Like me, it desires only to be inside.
I hear there was a tornado not too far west of here.