Ozone zings my nostrils,
as I watch the angry storm approach,
a wall of falling silver is now visible,
it is consuming all it touches as it eases my way.

A blinding flash and a
clap of thunder rolls,
geosmin and petrichor
overwhelm my sense of smell.

The wind begins to run
through the mint and rosemary,
and pinon pine needles begin to fall,
a potpourri of sweet, herbal, and spicy.

Giant drops begin to fall,
splashing on my face,
I close the door on the storm,
to the smell of roasting chicken.