It starts as a wind, cold and naked, that flows in from the north, rolling in waves across the tall grass. With frightful suddeness, a churning armada of bloated clouds, like a column of leviathons, appears on the horizon.
Wreathed in swirling vapor, spitting fire and hail like a cannon salvo, the flagship, a dark towering wedge of rotating menace, slides down from the sky. She scrapes her hull on the firmament then hesitates, as if grounded or perhaps pausing to take a breath. With a groan she lifts her prow, lurches forward, and gouges the earth like a plowshare.
She eventually abandons the chase, the way a cat grows bored with swatting a dead mouse. Purging her ballast, she lifts back into the sky, following the wind south, toward darkness and her home, the sea.