Answer:
The sun bakes them, the hand breaks them, the foot treads on them, and the mouth tastes them.
I am always hungry, I must always be fed. The finger I lick will soon turn red.
I can run but not walk. Wherever I go, thought follows close behind.
It is destruction made out of thin air, You hear it howl and give a prayer, Through barns and houses it will tear. It is a deadly funnel, Of violent and twisting air.
All about, but cannot be seen, Can be captured, cannot be held, No throat, but can be heard.
What is always coming but never arrives?