Gad! These NOAA projections get closer to RT ('real time') the closer I get to NT ('no time')!
Get this: clouds at my window's 2 o'clock high, circling counter-clockwise, slow as even fast-moving clouds do, from our south.
Casually, I click on National Weather Service and find a bulletin placed there a minute before warning of a hurried hail storm coming, ice big as a penny!
Thunder crack. Pellets smacking the house gutters and walkways, gully-washing the street and swamping the sewer-grate which gulps like a whirlpool, like a drowning man.
While one cat burrows under bed, the other stares from safety at the backyard slider, as I watch with it the wads of white hack at the wood deck as if envying it its splinters.
Then over. No single bullet lies a penny big, nor e'en a ha'penny, perhaps a farthing size, but angry-faced, a foe well-dead, de-energized.
And the bolder cat jumps down from her couch, and stretches to be scratched and to nosh. So I give her what her boldness has earned; I scoop her her kibble, designer fat girl meal.
And I think about Weir's movie, The Last Wave, where the Abos get the last word and we all go down.