The storm lurched in like a prize fighter, throwing right jabs and left uppercuts as spruce trees bobbed and ducked. Then, punch-drunk and exhausted, it fell to the canvas where it was covered with two inches of fresh snow.
(Now, what in blazes am I going to do with that? Sometimes I just have to get some words out, and then I'm stuck with them. Someday, maybe, I'll find an appropriate venue for those words. In the meantime, I'm freeing them to gambol about in cyberspace. Anyway, that's what it was like here a couple nights ago--lots of brawn and bluster all night long, but all played out in the morning.
Maybe I can save it for the next Bulwer-Lytton contest, the annual bad writing contest. You know: "“It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.”)