I smelled July when I woke yesterday.  The windows were all open and in my sleep I breathed in the blooming juneberries and blushing wild roses and wasted dandelions and mama’s poppies, poised on the cusp of revealing their orange depths.

Like the call of the loons, which I heard as the sun began to rise, there is something silver in the scent of July … something stolen and secret, not known by all.  It is something like this:

When the breeze blows gently at dawn through the Warehome, it will bring the scent of the high country, the subalpine firs and lichens and molting Bighorn sheep, down from Swiftcurrent Pass.  The wind will sweep through Bullhead Lake and Red Rock Falls and add a note of glacial milk, turquoise and icy, and then rush through the quaking Aspen, taking on a hint of mint and mirth.  By the time it wafts over my pillow, it has taken on the tang of the lower valley’s ponds and moose and willows, and it will gently take my subconscious by the hand, inviting me to come out and play.

Ah, July.  We’re ready for you.

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