The Forming of The Tornado

"The Forming of The Tornado" Photographed On Our Property June 2021

While documenting the "Timber Series" in the field, the sky unexpectedly darkened to a fiery red as a tornado began forming right in front of me, sweeping across the back of our property in Pleasant Hill, Tennessee. It was an extraordinary moment, capturing nature's power. The energy in the air was immense, although I later learned that the tornado wasn't very strong. However, it did cause some damage to our local elementary school and tore the roof off a nearby building. At the time, I felt little fear and continued documenting the event. Hours later, I reflected on how things might have been different if the winds had turned toward me. I suppose I was caught up in the excitement of witnessing such immense power while photographing the logging of the property. During the event, I recall a muffled sound—not particularly loud, nor like the train-like sound I had read tornadoes make. After it passed, everything around me fell silent. There were no bird songs or wind, and since the loggers weren't working that day, the equipment was silent too. Surprisingly, despite expectations of pouring rain, there was none. I began the ten-minute walk back to the house to share my story with Kathy. "You should have seen it," I said, to which she replied, "I'm glad I didn't." That's my little story about the pictures I took that day—my adventure capturing the swirling winds while documenting my series on logging.

The Forming of the Tornado

By Eric Buechel

In the quiet hush of a summer's day, The sky begins to shift, in a curious way. Whispers of wind dance through the trees, As nature stirs, with a gentle tease. Dark clouds gather, a brooding mass, The air grows heavy, as shadows pass. A rumble of thunder, a distant roar, The tempest brews, preparing for war. A spiral forms, a twisting grace, Nature's fury, a wild embrace. With a funnel reaching down to the ground, A force of chaos, where peace is drowned. It spins and churns, a fierce ballet, Devouring all in its frenzied play. Fields and homes, caught in its flight, A fleeting moment, a terrifying sight. Yet in its wake, the calm returns, The sun breaks through, as the world still yearns. For in the heart of the storm’s cruel dance, Lies the beauty of nature, in its wild romance.

Eric Buechel Fine Art

P. O. Box 277

Pleasant Hill, Tennessee 38578

931-881-7806

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