At the foot of Meledin wind and weather had carved an arching cave little more than a few paces deep.

The wind had carved the stones into gaunt, unlikely shapes, like fingers.

At the foot of the ridge, the wind has carved, over time, human figures, pierced by thick roots of oaks.

Snow lay knee deep; thicker in the valleys and thinner on the shoulders of the mountains where the wind carved it close.

Laura glanced out the window, watching the wind carve patterns in the snow.

He leaned his shoulder against the window frame and stared out at the gardens below, watching the wind carve patterns into the snow, thinking of Laura.

Look at the way the wind has carved patterns into the snow between the trees, as though it were an artist.

Not a single plant had found a foothold on it, but the wind had carved fissures and cracks in its cliffs.

The trail swung down upon a wide stony flat where the wind had carved a thousand grotesque figures.

Now the endless winds had carved the huge stacks of dead into endless friezes, honeycombs.