of petrichor

On the east, the land lies still, but the whistle of mourning doves’ wings kazoos through the brittle, dry grass.

On the west, the air offers no ruse to my weeping, parched skin—a casualty in the friction between soil and sun. The tension prods at my being like fragments of glass,

begging to sip up my essence—its salt—like rum. I can taste the thirst of the earth inside of me now. In California, during fire season, this is who we’ve become.

Even in Autumn, I’d expect the sky to be blue through November. Something has changed, though—could it be? In the north, there’s an overcast glow amassing before me. Clouds of grey offer hope—full of dew, not of smoke—painting a landscape I’ve viewed once, stored deep in my memory. “Let the Sky Pour,” (I title it, secretly).

And then, the scent drifts to me—the fragrance our ancestors traced—one not of flame or of ember today, but of rain; of droplets reviving earth’s pores: of clay, of love, of chemistry, of petrichor.

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-Gina C. 🧚‍♀️✨