looking West

     A storm is actually coming.  No, my elbow isn't acting up.  
     Then how do I know?  
     They say you can smell ozone before a storm.  
     Burning ozone from thousands of lightning strikes in the sky. 
I can smell the ozone burning.  
     It whispers of immanence; a violence that curls my nostrils in terrified pleasure. 
I can see the dark clouds swirling.  I smile at their magnificent ferocity.  
     They are so quiet from here: my perch in the path of the storm.  
I can feel the temperature drop.  Small bumps on my skin fill the air where heat used to be.  
     The air is wet with the sobering cold sheets of rain.  Waiting, waiting for me. 
I can hear the rumble.  It's in the clouds and in my stomach.  
     We hunger; me and the vaporous cinnamon swirls. They crave to devour and I to be devoured.  
I can taste the electricity.  It vibrates the air around me
     with the intensity of a new father waiting for the screams of his first child to echo from the other room. 

     The moment is pregnant with the untold tale that will be told in due time.  A brief story about my
     death.  And
     birth.  
     A new birth from a violent death.  A flash of lightning told in slow prose.
     So slow it takes a year to tell the tale.  A labor of months always hinting at a promise.
     But never tells.  A secret promise:
Petrichor.
     A promise of new life so abundant that its obnoxious odor infects everything.
I will smell petrichor. 
     My nostrils will curl with delight.
I will see petrichor.
     I will gaze on swirling mists around my ankles.  
I will feel petrichor. 
     The warm humidity will refresh my rain-battered skin.
I will hear petrichor. 
     The hymns of satiation from the living all around me.  
I will taste petrichor. 
     An airborne tonic inhaled by the tongue.  

     People call petrichor an ending; a climax; an aftermath.
I will know otherwise:  
     Petrichor is not a resolution, but a commencement.