Arches
That morning:
The smell of the clean desert after a night of thunderstorms
Slow, long light, beckoning flowers to open and a hint of moisture wafting from the red sand stone. Magic.
That evening:
Propane grill smoke from a frozen rib eye and beer breath occupy your nostrils.
Both smells are a gift.
This poem was inspired by this is incredible photo from the Arches National Park Twitter account, and my countless days grilling and storm chasing in the desert.