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Hoppin'

July 2012

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Hoppin'

I remember like a snake eats. Months will pass unremarked, lean times. Good times, or bad. Then one night I am night driving into rain, rain like thin fabric lit pale yellow orange in the sky ahead and drops timid on glass, growing braver until a sound like hard candy pouring onto metal. Resisting the discordant squeal of wipers, no music but this, the rush of air through cracked windows; a single or two drops reach through to skin and I am fed, senses gorged, skin registers humidity, warmth, patchwork breeze caressing like scraps of silk. The road slicks, glosses, immense columns of orange sodium light bloom in angles from the median, bend and shiver. The word for the smell of fresh rain is petrichor. The word for rain that does not reach the ground is verga.
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PETRICHOR.