That's when I realized: the ducklings, the horse, and the scarecrow that had smashed into the window were all on the move for a good reason.
We had all seen the cute little cumulus clouds puffing up that morning, and I had said while getting ready to pick up hubby from work: “It's going to rain -- another reason I'm not going to that party. Look at the size of that anvil cloud!”
It was May in Dixie Alley. We were in the inflow wind of a supercell, and it was blowing a warning.
The ducks were coming in our direction. The horse had stopped, temporarily confused by why we were driving in his direction, and the scarecrow had stopped, temporarily held up by my driver's side mirror before flying on in front of us.
The tornado twisted down from the supercell just then.
“I remember what our new neighbor told us,” my husband said. “If a tornado looks like it's not moving, you are in its track.”
“Well, we're in the track but not behind it, because I think we would know that, so...”
He opened the door and let the ducks into the car, and then I put the pedal to the metal as the inflow blowing us backward and the tornado behind us both strengthened. The scarecrow went up into the tornado; the horse kept up because we were breaking wind for him.
The tornado lifted after the most terrifying 30 seconds of our lives.
The horse went home to his farm, we let the ducks out at the nearest pond, and we went to the nearest storm shelter.
“I told you I wasn't going to that party,” I said to my husband when we at last got home, and he laughed.