Outside the window, the bare trees that surrounded Larkmoor thrashed uneasily in the wind, their black branches clawing like witch fingers at the mottled sky.

The single tree on the northern slope was thrashing as though in a gale and there was scarcely one leaf left on its splintered branches.

On the steep hills behind the building, black trees thrashed in the escalating wind.

The trees thrashed and clatteredtheir branches overhead.

The trees tossed and thrashed their branches overhead, showering them with leaves and small twigs.

The trees thrashed overhead.

The trees thrashed, shedding their last leaves into the bitter wind.

The more the trees thrashed, the more the leaves were whipped into a storm, the more distinctly I repeated it.

While we all lay flat and frantically tried to bury ourselves still deeper, the tree thrashed violently around, its gum-laden spatulates thirsting for vengeance.

Rolling fog still poured from out the forest and the trees still were thrashing furiously, but the small band of hairless ones who had broken through now were lying on the ground, either dead or dying.