I woke this morning to rain-smell—summer rain after
weeks of a tall sun crossing over me. The
smell of summer rain is a bouquet that fills all spaces. Here, the scent of pine slow-dances with
earth and stone. Here, the hint of cured
brome, of sage, and juniper touching the sky.
In the darkness, I walked my damp country road out
onto the small plain in front of my home.
I could hear nighthawks calling off their sky-plunges, hoooozing, as they veered sideways or
back up again. The moon hovered above,
not able to fully disrobe from the clouds.
I walked through rain-smell and thought about a
question someone asked me the other day as we stood surrounded by
twenty-somethings at a wedding reception.
“Would you like to go back into your younger years again…if you could do
that?” I was asked.
This morning, I have my answer: “No. No, I have no desire to be young again, to
start anew.” I wish to remain here near
end of summer, a part of the after-rain bouquet.
--Mitchell Hegman
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