This house has been far out at sea all night,
The woods crashing through darkness, the booming hills,
Winds stampeding the fields under the window
Floundering black astride and blinding wet
Till day rose; then under an orange sky
The hills had new places, and wind wielded
Blade-light, luminous black and emerald,
Flexing like the lens of a mad eye.
Wind Ted Hughes
The storm finally arrived as promised. We lay in bed, on a cushion of half-sleep, and warily listened to the booming whoosh of the wind as it swept along the landscape. I thought about the roof, a tile warned that it was now loose, and we have a chimney that needs some work. The wind just continued. We were on a raft, in a bed of concerns, and yet we did not stir for fear of waking the other, whom we knew was already awake.
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