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Petrichor

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It is raining.

I cannot deny how the rain, the night, and the gentle hum of droplets hitting the tin roof comforts me. There was once a time, not unlike tonight, when I would lie in bed, cocooned in blankets, and listen. I would listen to the untempered rhythms of a storm; its constant thrumming a gentle melody composed to an unknown beat. A beat known only by the clouds and by the sky; by the birds and the owls and the ring tailed possums. A beat of inconsistent tempo: always changing, always moving, running wild across the land. Rain was untamed and I would feel alive.

Even after the clouds had passed, after the beat was no more than a distant drumming, I could smell its presence. The smell crept into every pore, wove itself into my hair, danced around my feet, and embedded itself into my memories. The smell of water meeting dry earth.

Petrichor.



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