In the sky. Not a plane.
I saw it with my own eyes, coming down, whirling. I ran, not away from it, but towards. From it grew a mammoth garden; flowers and vines, trees and roots. I built a house there of stone, and lived under leaves, until a great wind came and blew the world away.
(Start with a #sixwordstory; then expand into a #sixtywordstory)
*Image courtesy of photoexplorer at FreeDigitalPhotos.net