The Scent of Water

There is a certain wind that comes off the water; a wind that smells like rain as it’s drying; peach-colored mist on wood or pavement. Something, yes, remarkably dry, wrapped in all the smoothness of water, like roots beneath the earth, bundled and secret. This wind is new in its ancientness, like it may have lain undiscovered for thousands of years, stunningly silent, a black and white television on mute, unstirred except by the airbeats of robins–until now. This wind that carried the first rains to the lifeless oceans, this wind that now rises with the chill of the creek, is so distinct, and so instinctual that when you turn a corner and hear nothing, and see nothing, but feel that wind, you know immediately that there is water nearby, and, without thinking, you run to it.


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