Picture this: peals of thunder roll majestically through the Jersey air. At night, jagged bolts of lightning illuminate the sky like signal flares, and there are no street lamps or neon lights to tarnish their intensity.
The rain meets the tree line in pearly sheets and in big, fat drops that bounce off leaves and scurry down windshields. Afterwards, droplets glisten on pine branches, suspended gently in midair.
The water seeps into the earth, swelling Chatsworth Lake and soaking into the bed of grass, fallen leaves, and pine needles that carpet the forest floor. On the road, it lingers a bit longer, magicking up rainbows in the oil spots pickup trucks have left on the asphalt.
Even the warm, sandy mud smells good. Yankee Candle would make a killing if they could distill the scent of Pine Barrens rainfall into a candle. They could probably figure out a way to do it, too, but I like to think that it’s something too ephemeral and precious to bottle.