Heads that were bent in sadness, some shielded by hats and sunglasses, glance up as it starts to rain. More storms are coming. If the weatherman is right, they’ll be here before we’ve even recovered from the last one. A few black umbrellas open, and I want to tell them that their efforts are pointless. There’s no way to be prepared for what’s coming.

Dark clouds gather on the horizon and roll toward us. We’re in the worst possible place. They don’t call it Tornado Alley for nothing.

Yet here we stand. Mourning. Grieving. Too distracted by loss to notice that we’re right in the path of destruction.