Nothing smells quite like a desert rain. The drops fall on sand and dirt and dried scrub brush, release the odors of life from blossoms and fruit, from the dry, cracked earth and the brittle, brown branches of mesquite and juniper, of saltbush and creosote.
Cordelia can count the number of rainstorms each year on her fingers, even with the missing index of her right hand. She’d learned to shoot left-handed after he’d removed her trigger finger with a pair of pliers.
The pungent but pleasing aroma reaches her front porch on the breeze before the rain; sometimes the rain never arrives, but the sweet air provides evidence that it has indeed fallen somewhere in the Sonoran. The grackles and doves flutter about in anticipation, locating the nearest cover from the rare precipitation as a precaution. But even they don’t believe it. They will only take cover after the first fat doll…
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to A Writer's Block: Robb Grindstaff to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.