It sounded like an old B-52 bomber taking off. I looked out the window, and the flagpole was bent over and the flag was sticking straight out.

He was armed with a bent fork. That's what he used to pry open the window.

This so gnawed at him on some nights that he lay awake wondering just how many unknown and similarly inconsequential accidents and bits of happenstance were at this moment occurring or failing to occur in order to ensure he took his next breath, and the next. It gave him the sensation that he was tottering on the tip of a flagpole. He was poised on circumstance.

The babies looked like dolls flying out of the window.

It sounded like a herd of buffalo coming down the mountain and taking the trees out.

The huddle looked like the old huddle again.