In seconds the carefully tended lawn is a bog.

The fury of the storm sends liquid blades lashing against screens, tearing them so as to get at the glass they emulate. Those that tear flesh cannot conquer this, and so the winds whirl around the clouds, searching to bring something new to the ground. This is found in the pellets of ice that now splash into the bog, and bounce from glass to dent automobiles. To no avail: The home dwellers are protected.

The skies grumble at that, send a flash raging across the grey and shoot a bullet in its wake. The windows rattle, the gutters overflow, and, ah, passage is gained in the mudroom down below: A pipe leaks rainwater, and its unique scent. The homeowners run about, looking for the cause, but no luck. The storm backs off a bit, satisfied for the moment, then comes back in full force: Booming, and flashing, and dumping, and dropping. Pelting, and slashing, and overflowing, and mashing.

The goal of the storm is simple: To bring pause to the world of men. And, as they wait in watery limbo, it succeeds.