The smell is the dry, dusty, sharp kind that hangs about under stands of red pines. It is localized. Just faintly reaching the trail when the stands are close enough for it to compete against the manure and river water and sunflowers. The sap must be boiling. Half a mile distant, the temperature gradient of the rising air causes undulations in light rays. The asphalt appears to be flowing. The sap fades abruptly and I am surrounded by a floral nectar. A rolling green and yellow.
This whole thing is nice because it unplugs my mind from the constant and rapidly changing stimulation it usually receives during leisure time. It is halfway between reflection and meditation, free flowing and cathartic. Alternating between issues, which eventually need to be addressed and transient concerns. A smell is not sharp. That has no meaning.
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