artsy fartsy prose
I looked outside of the French doors, past the patio into the yard. There was a tumultuous windstorm, and the branches of our three trees were tossed back and forth by the wind's strength. They were bowed, but not broken, as a nordic struggler might fight against an extraordinary blizzard.
As I walked away from the window, I could hear an immense scraping and clatter on the ceiling that must have been tree branches beating back and forth on the shingles, buffeted in the wind.
Standing in the hallway, where I could still hear the noise, I could almost imagine an impression that perhaps the house itself was finding itself taxed, and was causing these noises as the result of some sort of ancient effort exerted against the unrelenting wind.
As I walked away from the window, I could hear an immense scraping and clatter on the ceiling that must have been tree branches beating back and forth on the shingles, buffeted in the wind.
Standing in the hallway, where I could still hear the noise, I could almost imagine an impression that perhaps the house itself was finding itself taxed, and was causing these noises as the result of some sort of ancient effort exerted against the unrelenting wind.