The Native Iowan

You can hear it coming… It’s very hard to describe. The first time (for the several first few times) it’s scary as hell to hear. It starts kinda quiet. A back ground kinda sound. Like rollers pounding the beach. You hear it. But have to pause to identify what you hear. Far away. Silent. Coming.

It’s the Doppler effect that throws you. The red shift as they call it. It has to do with sound moving slower as it comes towards you but moving faster as it meets and passes you. Or some such bs I failed to learn in Astronomy 101. It’s coming. Quietly. At first. Then louder… louder.

If you had to describe it… An army of thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions. On the move. An air borne army. Wingless yet flying. Borne by the air. Carried by the wind. Bearing down. Directly in it’s path. You sit. Listening. Waiting. Wondering. If only it was. An army of thousands. If only it was.

The sound gets louder. Clearer. The ocean is a drum. A drum having the shit beat out of it. The wind is the alto and tenor to the drums’ booming bass and baritone. More sounds appear. Voices in the air. Airborne voices belonging to the faceless army. Wind competing with the drum. Alto versus Bass.

Or, is it alto and bass coming after you? The wind and the sea? Air and water. Two of the four original elements. Coming. Just for you. Where is fire and earth? Are they on your side? Lurking somewhere behind the other two? No time to run. No time to hide. It’s coming. Coming fast.

Wind hits first. A tremendous blow. Shaking the dwelling. Feel it lift? Strain to hold the earth? Is earth on your side? Will it let go? Let you, your dwelling go blowing away? Like Dorothy in the twister? Not a single blow. You realize. But a sustained effort to evict you from your rooted stance.

You hold on. Hold your dwelling to the earth. With your toes. Your eyes, ears… your will. Another strong gust. The dwelling rocks. The roof screams. Strains to hold. The walls shiver. Twist. Your bed shakes. Get up? Run? Where to? Outside? Into the wind? The fury. The fury trying to move you? Destroy you?

Feel it weaken? Gusts subside. Move on. You sigh. Relief. Then the noise. The army of thousands… millions. Upon you. A single blow. A million single blows. You are the drum. A drum hammered by a million pellets. Pellets of water. Not rain drops. Not these. Drops are little. Little and meek. These, big and fierce.

Your equilibrium has been damaged. You thought it was over. Or ending. Almost ready to relax. Roll over. Pull the sheets up. Dream a sweet dream. Forget about the wind. The noise. Forget about the sea thundering and the wind howling. No chance of standing now. Running… out of the question. Lie tight. Hang on.

The rain beats you. Driving into the earth what the wind could not uproot. The sound deafens. The tin roof now the drum. You’re inside. The windows rattle. You wish you’d ran outside. Into the Wind. The rain. Away from the dwelling. The dwelling has no chance. No chance in hell. Against such a force.

It’s a long, long night. Tiring Sleepless. Frightening. Lonely. Alone with the wind. The rain. Alone with the sounds. The noise. The dwelling moving. Being moved. Being twisted. Being torn. Brutalized. Abused. Vandalized. Victimized. Whipped and beaten. You console yourself. Stupid thoughts, really. But, at least, it could be worse; you could be at sea.