It rained last night

I’d forgotten what bright air was like. I breathe. Each molecule separate and crisp in my lungs, not treacled into a sludgy inbreath, a clammy outbreath.
 
The rain has brought the earth back to life. On my bike I move fast through its long-stored scents: I breathe in hawthorn, and out, I breathe in petrichor, and out, I breathe in dosgshit, and out.

Everything is new, unexpected, strange. It's as if I'd never realised that, unlike the flow of sight, scent is discontinuous. Each outbreath leaves space for the new smell further down the path. Each inbreath is unpredictable … clematis … and out … human … and out … cow parsley … and out … horsehair … and out … grass … and out … riverwater … and out … dogshit with buttercup … and out … cow parsley with horse … and out … petrol … and out … damp wood … and out … rotting food … and out … roses … and out …