Windswept
The world outside my window is windswept. Not, however, "swept" in the sense of an elderly janitor dabbing rheumatically at the ground with a spindly broom, or "swept" in the way that small children play at Cinderella, and sing sugary tunes while fluttering about like butterflies. No. Any notions of "swept" on this deplorably cold day must necessarily involve far more polemical imagery. Think: veritable armies of large, formidable, tyrannical mothers descending upon the quivering terrain with gargantuan feather dusters. Think: the enraged Four Apocalyptic Horsemen whirling and tumbling across the world with brooms, the very clouds fleeing from their wrathful path. Think: disgruntled, henpecked God with a vacuum cleaner.
Think, in short, galeforce.
Such despicable weather evokes great reluctance to open windows or doors. I shall be staying inside today, and will probably open a book, instead.