Tears of Sky

The air, thick with the promise of the coming downpour, held a peculiar aura. Not the sharp, acrid tang of the approaching storm, but a subtle, almost ethereal perfume. A dampness, a coolness, a hint of earth, of decaying leaves, of something ancient and comforting. It clung to the air, a fine, invisible mist, a silent prelude. The impression, not a smell, but a feeling, whispered through the leaves, rustling in the branches, sighing through the reeds. A tremor of anticipation, a hushed expectancy. The world held its breath. A moment of suspended animation. Then, a single drop, like a tear from the sky, traced a glistening path down a blade of grass. Another. Another. Another. Another. Another! The rhythm quickened, a drumming on the roof. A deluge. And the impression changed. It deepened, becoming richer, more profound. Not just the earth, but the washed-clean stone of the riverbed, the dampened petals of wilting jasmine. The dampened asphalt had a peculiar, earthy sweetness. A memory, fleeting and profound, of childhood afternoons spent in the garden, the relentless drip, drip, drip of the rain, the damp cool air against the skin. A child's quiet joy. The presence of rain. It was more than an impression. It was a sigh of the earth, a whisper of the universe, a testament to life's relentless cycle of renewal.