The smells of wet dirt and greasy puddles is fowl in of itself, but it reminds me that the fresh growths await like racers taking off at the starting line when they hear the gun – each bursting to shoot to new heights and soak in the rare opportunity.
The humid air caresses my skin, and as I drink it in, my lungs and chords are quenched. The thick, moist air sticks to me like a warm blanket and my delighted skin welcomes this change from the dry oven that so often sucks the water of life from my cells.
Birds are singing to remind each other that the rain hasn’t changed their homes nor territory. My little dog investigates the aftermath, hunting down all the new and interesting smells like escaped convicts.
Rains like this in June are an unexpected, but most welcome guest to these parched desert grounds. Oh how I wish they could stay longer, but that bastard sun is running them off as I write.