I’m on a flight halfway between Houston (Hobby) and Dallas (Love Field). I’m in the clouds, can’t see the ground, flying instruments, and the turbulence is moderate to severe. I wish I was back in Houston, in my motel room, still asleep. As usual, the weather forecast was wrong. No severe weather was forecast.I’m mouthing Bob Dylan’s song, Shelter from the Storm, to get that mental picture out of my head -- wings being torn from the fuselage.“…come in, she said, and I’ll give you shelter from the storm…” I wish. Departure control’s calling. “Cessna 6642 Charlie, contact air traffic ...