The rain does not smell like creosote.

In the desert, rain is precious. When it falls, plants and animals all react strongly, obviously, vividly. The resins of the creosote bush combust under rainwater to ignite the air with a fragrance that unfolds over the desert like a thundering satin sheet, slowly settling, rippling across hundreds of miles of undulating, open desert.

Rain in Minnesota rolls off duck’s backs. Like water. And it doesn’t have a smell.

Lives of quiet desperation under water.