The Last Word

The storms had passed— but barely. And near a creek by a parking lot, a few homeless friends sat quietly after the wind had come in waves, one after another, like it tried to shake the ground loose beneath them. Hail, rain, gusts strong enough to knock over trash cans and trampolines—these storms brought tornadoes with a vengeance.

When I arrived, the air was quiet, like the quiet that followed storms, wet days, or unsure situations. I could almost smell the damp asphalt where so many tread without clear direction, as if their lives were funnels of chaos, too. And the sky still grumbled in the distance, like it wasn’t finished.

One man looked up and said, “Thought that storm was gonna take everything with it.”