I remember when I used to talk to the wind. It is not a matter of belief, or childish imagination. Rather, it is a sense of blissful ignorance, that instinct to talk to the inanimate in case there is a possibility of more to the inanimate, to the offspring of the true queen, Mother Nature. The wind is not, necessarily, alive and interested in the ramblings of a five year old girl living in suburban Lester, England, and yet she, the five year old, still whispered sweet nothings into the breeze. The comfort of a constancy which is so prevalent in the summer breeze is what hooked me, hooked like the calm dance of the laundry on the clothes line. It is the comfort of a listening force, the promise of secrecy, and the absence of fearing interruption. Words to notions to ideas to firm beliefs spill out of my mouth for the wind to carry away, over the sea to a different indifferent continent. She takes and caresses me in her chilled arms, as she blows the pixie-cut strands of hair out of my round face with her cold breath. She lends her figurative ear as she pushes me on my plastic swing in a garden deprived so. She never answers. She never criticizes. She does, however, listen. Listens to the troubles of a kindergartener. And you and I, in her debt, must listen as well. Listen to the chimes she plays with in the vain attempt to communicate. Listen. Truly listen. Listen.