It began almost imperceptibly. I heard once how mountains make their own weather. Down below, it's been hot and dry. I've lost track of the number of small wildfires that've been reported. It'd been another hot day, but, by late afternoon, the sky had turned the color of slate, and the air felt heavy. Well, heavy for the thin arid air of the Colorado's High Country. Three and a half unfortunate teenage years in the rural south taught me the true meaning of humid.
Out on the porch with the hounds and a whiskey, I feel something cold and wet hit my leg. I growl, thinking; fucking hummingbirds!, but soon realize my delusion with a certain rat-a-tat-tat! that stirs up the dirt of the drive. My nostrils fill with a scent, which, like that of old books, can never be properly described with the clumsiness of language, but only experienced.
And what I experienced lasted barely a sip from my tumbler. Clouds broke to shards of turquoise and cotton candy cobwebs across the early evening sky. It was just enough to fill the air with that scent and stir up the road dust and mosquitoes. I wanted to stay out longer and drink it all in, but words formed in my skull and I had to purge them out to stave off madness. So it goes.
It is spitting distance from July. Colorado's monsoon. Up here, it will be the days of just-like-clockwork two o'clock thunderstorms. I have a hardshell and look forward to the rain.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a whiskey to finish amongst the mosquitoes and a scent that language would insult in trying to describe...