An open field; home. Dark, squat, ominous stormclouds churn ten feet above the ground, gather air in folds. Atmosphere consumed and left vacuous; trees bend skyward and silently rend from the earth. Limbs dissolve into lifeless, swirling debris. Things that should not fly, do. Miles of the same. Silent chaos everywhere. Muted catastrophe. Some combination of tornado, fog and thunderhead; without lightning. The images _too_ sharp; altered; edited; planned; scripted; filmed. Wholly unnatural. Ever rolling. Ever consuming. Ever silent.
I observe; curious, confused, awestruck. They do not stop for me.