The smell is unmistakable. Unique to this place.
It’s the smell of anticipation. Of the sky gathering its breath waiting for the two to meet.
When they do the earth will know it.
The ground will feel the petulant energy. And then, oh then, will the long longed for peace come.
Sometimes in unmanageable torrents. Other times in the lack of remorse of a few tears. But the relief does come.
The smell of the wet earth of spring and of summer. The pavement washed of the filth of the everyday troubles. A release of joy and of hope that the world will someday be right and whole again.
Today’s two forces opposing one another. Echoing and reflecting the ultimate resolution to come.
But the time is not now. The time is not yet.
Yet we hope.
We gather our own breath and hold onto the familiar smell.
We know the rain will come.