Every once in a while, there is a strange storm that comes about our fort. We know it's coming when the grass around us is tall. We can hear it off in the distance as it approaches, but since it happens generationally, many forget to expect it, and even fewer prepare for its arrival.

Too many of us will be out and about, working for the greater good of the commune, when it hits. We'll scurry around when winds like blades of metal cut down our home, trying to protect our unborn young. They are our future. At the same time, the queen will recess to the bottomest depths that we have dug.

How do I know of it, you ask? I, like my father before me, and his father before him, are the Storm Watchers. Our family, generations ago, was selected to record and pass on information regarding this particular storm phenominon. However, since the selection is long forgotten amongst the others of the commune, they believe neither that we were selected for such a task, nor that such a storm exists.

We call it "The Mowing". It is due to the fact that all of our surroundings, our home, our environment, all of it is clear cut, it is all mowed down to a dramatically shorter height.

All of this is said to preface this: as my profession requires this of me, it is with the evidence of the observation of long grass and the absence of the Mowing for two whole complete generations, that it is my prediction that such a storm will pass through this area tomorrow.

We will suffer great losses.