Thursday afternoon the sky went bruise-green and the wind started talking through the gutters. We watched shingles lift on the ranch across from us like playing cards. A metal porch chair skittered across White Oak’s shoulder, and the pines behind our fence snapped like pencils.
After, we found a section of roof from two streets over wedged in our azaleas, nails still in it. A neighbor’s camper was on its side, and power poles on Florence had fresh cracks. One guy on the block had a sun porch wall bowed inward like a fist had hit it…