Today the ground is warming up. As it dries, the mud releases subtle particular scents. Having lived many places over the decades, I recognize different smells after rainfall. This is not the sharp chamisa and juniper of the high desert in Santa Fe, or the washed urban grit of Manhattan. This smells like home — or at least it smells familiar, close to the red clay of my childhood home down the Ohio, related to the rich loam of my beloved alma mater in the Finger Lakes.
It is 78 Fahrenheit at the moment, a good 20 degrees warmer than Las Vegas. What an unusual inversion. This is the first time I’ve seen it.
Throw open the doors, put up the storm windows. This afternoon, summer is here.