The wind whooshes through the trees. I can hear it. The sound of a sweeping broom, combined with the sigh of a fed up sweeper. But I'm not always hearing tiredness. Sometimes it plays with the trees, gently, peacefully. I can hear the leaves laughter as the wind tickles them. Other times, it is pushing and shoving past the branches, to get to who knows where. Short pants or heavy breaths, depending on the length of it's journey. The wind plays and runs like a child. It is a cheeky child as well. It mischievously sneaks up on you, surprising you with a soothing or harsh breath, depending on what mood it's in. But it is always gone as quickly as it came. I like the short visits of the wind.
But I don't like the visits from the cars. Screeching tires, harsh engines. They're loud, deafening even. And they're sudden, like the wind, but they are not welcome. They wake me from my daydreams, trundling along the road, without a thought of the world around them. The wind is not like that. It carries the seeds to places where they can grow. It guides the birds to new homes. It blows the rain clouds to where it is needed most. But the cars force upon the wind it's most terrible job. To take upon the fumes from the cars. A duty it does not want. To carry man's ignorance was not it's intended purpose. The wind hates it, it angers at the thought of it's burden. And although I cannot see that burden, I can hear it. Chesty coughs. Coughs trying to eject the smoke. Coughs rising up the throat, desperate to return to it's fellow clumps of smog.
Although the wind is a cheeky, uncontrolled child, it is innocent. It belongs to Mother Nature. But humans have stolen it, forgetting it must be free. We have given it a load of our mistakes. It doesn't deserve it. It deserves to play with the leaves, to race around the branches.
The wind races through the trees. But there might be a day where there aren't any trees because of it. Because of us.