In the high deserts of the West, there is always that one rain in early summer, and you can smell it coming.
The whole air changes, and instead of the scents of dust and livestock, you smell a heavy musk, a brooding moisture spilling from the peaks of the mountains.
The winds pick up, and the rustle of the cottonwoods alerts you to the coming torrents.
And you can see it coming. It stampedes down the valleys, the shards of rain creating an opaque fog that consumed the mountains, the homes, the road.
You make it to the threshold of your home just in time, as the fat drops of waters begin their assault on the parched ground.
And it’s a copious flood, tumbling down from the bruised sky and quickly saturating the shallow soil and beginning to build up as a flowing river from the driveway into the thirsty grasses beyond.
You can see your snow peas and your peppers and your sunflowers perk up in anticipation of the waters, and as the puddles turn to ponds, you revel in the cool, damp air.
And you know, just know, that this will be the last rain of the summer.
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