It’s a dramatically stormy Monday morning here (but at least it’s rain, not snow) and it made me think of parts of a Neruda poem:
Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.
The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.
Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.
The rain takes off her clothes.
The birds go by, fleeing.
The wind. The wind.
I can contend only against the power of men.
The storm whirls dark leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.
(The whole thing is worth a read, because it’s Neruda, obviously, and because of that famous last line.)