It's a grey blustering day here. The wind continues to whip the trees and calls through the chimney and the vents. I've always loved the wind, imagery of the wind, and the way it is described and given motion in words. Below is a passage from Virgil's great The Aeneid. Seems Aeolus has let them free.
Here Aeolus is king and here in a vast cavern he keeps in subjection the brawling winds and howling storms, chained and bridled in their prison. They murmur in loud protest round bolted gates in the mountainside while Aeolus sits in his high citadel, holding his scepter, soothing their spirits and tempering their angry passions. But for him they would catch up the sea, the earth and the deeps of the sky and sweep them along through space. In fear of this, the All-powerful Father banished them to these black caverns with massive mountains heaped over them, and gave them under a fixed charter a king who knew how to hold them in check or, when ordered, to let them run with free rein.
(The Aeneid, Book I, 52-63)
