All were of one height, clean-shaven by the volleys of the wind-driven sand and pebbles that clipped off any treetop that aspired above the mass.

In solid numbers was their salvation, and they grew dense as grass, two feet high on the battlefront.

They were carved by that wind, for all storms came here out of the west, and the storm face of every tree was denuded of branches.

To the east the foliage streamed away.

Even in calm weather those trees spoke of storm.
Bull Hunter sat up to put on his snowshoes.