Galefin Manta

Its shadow raced over the wheat before we looked up. A gray manta swam beneath the storm shelf, almost invisible, with torn ribbons of wind behind its fins. It clipped the chapel weathercock and climbed before the brass hit the ground. Next pass, two wagon covers split from end to end. By the third we understood: it was cutting things loose to see who would scatter after them.

We lashed the canvas down, joined arms, and made the wagons one blunt shape. It came low enough for the belly lanterns to light our faces. Then it rode the cold front east.

Loose edges interest it first. A severed strap or stolen hat may draw someone out; a snapped pole can do the same. The real strike waits for a thin point in the formation. It turns by folding one fin and borrowing the wind beside it. Sudden dead air makes that turn clumsy.

Kites and spinning vanes attract its curiosity and can reveal an approach. Enclosed courts deny it room. Dense forest and smoke that exposes pressure layers also discourage it. Wounded, it seeks the nearest storm.