Standing on the ivy-laden terrace, I look across the vast expanse of the garden. Suddenly, I spot leaves being tugged from the branches and ushered beyond the iron gates. I hear the sweet melodic voices of the children carried out to the far-nether regions of the garden. I see the serene façade of the water begin to ripple, destroying the illusion of the sunbathed iron-and-stone giants. She tumbles over the immaculately cut grass that alternates in a pattern: dark, light, dark, light…she tousles the hair of a mother, a tourist, a child. Can she reach me so high up? Is it possible for her to change me as well? Of course it is, I think, as she caresses my cheek. She already has while I stood watching her move with grace. She is the wind, a force of nature. She has the power to change even in the metropolis. And I can see, hear, feel that the change is beautiful.
