Wind caresses his face and ruffles his hair fondly, a familiar friend that has stayed with him all this time. Through war and peace, friendship and hate, rain and snow and sickness and hunger. The north wind has always forgiven him for everything. Even the atom bomb, even nucleur missles that could still the Wind and all its children. But he's not so sure it'll forgive him this time.
The grass he stands in is yellow and beautiful, heated and growing well in the warm summer sun. He can see rolling hills, as far as the eye can see, in one direction, with corn fields and farms dotted across the land.
But if he turns, there is smog and metal buildings that scrape the sky, the noise of traffic and people yelling, and the sky is no longer blue.
In one direction, the night sky is brilliant and sparkling with a thousand, no, a million, tiny lights of hope floating in the inky blackness, a reminder of the past, present, and future. The north wind is chilly and sends shivers of cold through his body, refreshing and alive. This is what he stood for.
But if he turns, he can see the neon colors of the city, clouding the stars above. The moon is blocked out by skyscrapers towering and making people loose sight of where they came from, and the breeze is hot and heavy with carbon dioxide and whatever unpleasantness spread by humans.
"I'm sorry," America says, but the whisper is lost to the roaring of machinery.
A tear slips down his cheek and he turns away from the raw beauty in nature, towards the metal and unnatural colors, towards the greedy, lazy, and uncaring people he represents. Those who aren't aware of the piece of him they're destroying.
He begins to walk down the half-paved road, head down and mourning what he's loosing.
He's not sure the wind will forgive him this time.