My my, how time does fly.
Here we are in August already.
I will be going to my writer's group this week. Here is my essay. We are supposed to write about a smell.
Change
The saddle creaked as I turned Seth toward the southwest to get a better look at the approaching storm. The air was mild and still where we stood atop a knoll overlooking the valley. The dry grasses and dead tarweed exuded a clean pungent smell that seemed to keep me alert even though it had been a long day on the trail.
But across the valley, the dark clouds that obscured the setting sun, were even now unfolding their skirts upon the mountain peaks. Releasing the moisture they had stolen on their long journey across the ocean. As we both gazed beyond the long ago harvested fields, the first chill breeze reached us and we shivered as one. Time to get on home.
I sniffed the air, opening my nostrils wide, taking several deep breaths, as was my wont at times like these. Testing the wind, seeking a message. Urging my poor excuse for a nose to behave even half as well as a wild animals fine tuned instrument. And yes, it was there. Somewhere over there on the mist obscured peaks. . . it was snowing. The smell of dry pine needles, baked brittle over the long summer days, being moistened by a first snow is a once a year aroma. I savored it.
Seth too, took a good sniff and blew out hard. He gave me a start by letting out a deep whinny. His brief commentary told the whole tale. Winter is here. Its time to get inside you fool.
I gave him his head and we set out for shelter.
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"It's not winter.
It just turned August.
Someone get the calendar.
I'm going to have a talk with her.
Why am I the one who always has
to keep this stuff straight?"