Ten minutes after the thick sun drew my father's V of sweat through my shirt, hot rain showered the brown grass of my prairie city, and hailstones shredded locust trees to the north and to the south. Soon, blue sky emerged over steaming streets and newly-washed air. At twilight we rode into the fog and smelled the awakening grasses. "Watch out for rabbits," came the warning. The smell behind the warehouse: chocolate, diesel. In the nightswamp we rode down narrow, dark trails, and fed newborn mosquitos their first blood. On the quiet, wet streets where the veterans made babies, I smelled wet summer within half a second: erotic floral funk into earthworms.