70 degrees. Just enough light at the end of the workday to drive westward home as the sun goes down. And today, a bonus: a thunderstorm.

The sky was many-layered and remarkable. Cornflower blue, overlayed with towering white thunderheads. Sheets of slate rain painting the horizon. Vertical streaks of lightning. And, through breaks in the clouds, brilliant pink where the setting sun caught high, hidden clouds. I dared the raindrops with an open moonroof, and adored every minute of the quick drive home.

Even as the storm passed, disappointingly soon, the sky to the east whitened with bolts cradled in now-distant clouds. The air carried a smell I remembered from childhood–whether it’s the time of year, or some similar vegetation or something in the mystical, invisibilities of latitude and longitude, I don’t know. I open the windows and drink the night scents and brave the dropping temperatures. Sky love. Again.

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