It's *clean*, somehow.
All the grunge and grime and gunk of the city, washed away,
leaving behind only wet and heat and green and...
something undescribable.

Something pure, priordial.
Like this is a clean we're not meant to see.
A clean and pure
far older than us, and one
that will remain far after we've washed away
in that same neverending, always-falling rain.

It's fleeting, only for an hour,
or minutes even.

But always as it fades
and takes away its veil of mystery
that lets us see for moments
into a land older and younger than our own...
as it fades it leaves that lingering smell for one moment more.

 A promise that it will come again.

It hasn't rained in weeks.
Felt like it never would again.
but it's raining hard now, here...
and soon I shall walk outside
to drink in
that promise
once again.

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