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You smell it on the breeze

sweet scent of wet piñon and red dust

blowing off an advancing thunderhead.

 

When the towering anvil arrives

it casts bruised shadows,

pelts all with frozen rain

and thunders into your core.

 

You call on the Beloved

hold steady through the storm.

Parched desert softens, convictions evaporate.

 

A bird chirps, and another…

You lift your head to realize

the relentless pounding has stopped.

 

Birthed in its wake, a cool, balmy breeze.

And the scent that teased you before

swirls in your being like a dervish.