The angry gray storm wanted little Jesse. An oak tree by the shed was an ideal bat. A 90 mph gust did the trick. Job done, it moved on.
And the Cloud soared playfully higher, but the cold became unbearable. It’s not fair, thought the Cloud. I am going to cry.
The rain just fell. I saw it. I felt it though my skin is dry, the ground is dry, the air is dry, as if nothing had happened at all.