The boy put his hands to the rubber rims of the wheelchair and pushed himself out the west doors.  There were ripples in the grass and the skies had clouded.  It was peaceful.  Since the boy's accident the boy felt more alert somehow.  The boy liked watching those ripples in the grass, the tumbling of the clouds overhead, the way the fluffy tops of the sycamores by the creek bent and tossed in the rising wind.  But.  That rising wind.  The boy wasn't sure he liked the low wail that began moving through the farmyard, nor the green-yellow tint of the sky.  They were signs the old-timers said meant "twister."  "Better get busy and see to closing thing up," the boy told himself.  "Who knows?"  The radio was still running the same advisory: "wind ... hail ... tornado watch ..."