All clouds of the sky seem to have gathered over the tousled pines, their tops being swung by the wind. May the gale come forth and roar, try to rock them, they won’t budge an inch. He comes, rolls a heavy pile of brewing darkness out over their battered heads, whips it up, tears it apart, presses the scuds together again and whirls them shorewards. — Streams of water are squeezed out, fall off. Poured upon paths, roads, fields, and meadows into puddles, ducts, ditches, and drains, having even the biggest run over, flow round all those little crippled trees, bushes, and thorny shrubs scattered about. Driven forward across the country, pushed off and downed deep…
