It rises softly, prior to the storm, before the heavens make a decision. A singular inhalation from the surface of the earth— cracked, scorched, having waited too long. The fragrance does not appear abruptly. It reveals itself, as if pulled from ancient memory, from roots still attentive beneath layers of dirt and ash. It does not seek attention. It has no need to. It is recognized within the body, in the chest, in the vacant spaces where desire once resided. This is the earth recalling water. This is time melting away. A reunion that is unseen but profoundly experienced. The air feels denser now, laden with significance. Even the stones seem to halt. Even the birds become silent. This is the aroma of transformation, not loud, not intense, but assured. It arrives with no lightning, no grand display, only a soft murmur that something lost is on its way back. And although the soil stays arid a little longer, you understand— just by the scent— that the wait has ended. That existence, in its gentle manner, has commenced anew. ©️ James Michael 2025