Smell of Rain

I'd somehow forgotten the smell of rain. Here it never rains long enough to pick up that "wet city" smell. Raindrops fall percussively, in rapid taps and patters. Everything shines, glistens, sweats. Looking out my window, at the smoky skies, I have no way of telling what time it is. The little drops somehow distort time, make it deeper, more liquid. There's also something restorative, calming, and nurturing that happens to the psyche when it rains. Lush green limbs and leafy ferns sprout out from the soul. Mud inside veins softens and earthworms wriggle through chocolate hearts. Everything washes away; dirt drowns, puddles wink. Cars pass by and hiss at the silence. I'm met with a memory of something I can't remember. I see it through a wet windshield, truth smeared and stretched across it like blurred light. The window opens and the cold wind rushes in, leaping up at me like an excited dog. It tingles. I breathe it in and smile. In my nose, at the ends of short hairs, a gentle yet curious dew gathers, sparkling in the dark like diamonds.