It smells like rain
carrying the scent of gently running water and rumbling thunderclouds and fresh dark-green grass sparkling in the cool night mirroring the stars it's so cool against my face as it slips through the window and rubs my pen against the paper; reading my notebook scrawlings, flipping through my Merril’s Geometry book. It ruffles the hair of my friend bent over the polynomials on her page; she’s poking and hearding the numbers into the proper parentheses with her pencil point. She looks up, disheveled.
"Close the window, it’s cold," she hisses.
"It smells like rain," I say in defense.
"It’s getting my papers everywhere." She reaches over, and slides the window closed; the metal slamming down with a snap.
I look through the glass, searching for my friend But it had moved on, brushing the trees in its wake.
