“The wind is really picking up!” I said as I dropped the last of our luggage on the floor of the living room. We had just gotten back from a fourth of July weekend with the relatives. My new car was a dream to drive, and I had parked it on the lawn to unload it because this wind was bringing rain behind it and I didn’t want to have to carry the luggage in a downpour.

I turned around to watch the wind wreak havoc on the neighborhood, drawn to the sight like a passing motorist to an accident scene.

That’s when I saw the giant oak tree begin to lean precariously past the point of vertical balance. “The tree! It’s coming down!” I screamed. All I could think of was standing in a doorway, like in a tornado, as if the structure of the frame could save me from from the weight of lofty branches laid low. Twigs ripped at the window screen, branches pushed open the front door, barging into my small home.
When the rain let up, I went out to investigate. My car was smashed, along with the house next door. I was shaken.