The rain darkens dirt and asphalt. The petrichor triggers the eternal rain of all my memories into a singular manifestation. It is a subtle and fleeting comfort I don't get with any other experience.
The storm's pattering rush comes and goes quickly, leaving curb rivers and trickling water of different timbres from different surfaces. The air is fresh, the birds cacophonous.
The call of blue herons near the Locks sounds prehistoric—cinematic velociraptors. The screeching sound is disconcerting, but it reminds me of a Bigfoot TikTok in which a man hears a similar animal sound and suggests it's the hairy myth. I know it's not Bigfoot because there is a busy 7-11 near the herons. Bigfoots hate 24-hour security cameras.
I work at the end of the 44 Metro Line, where bus drivers eat 10-minute lunches and then use the 7-11 restroom before releasing the pneumatic brakes to start another run - it's behind-the-scenes, a thumbed Dean Koontz paperback, a TV test pattern, taped breasts, the glitch in the matrix.