Empty promises.

The rain smells different here.  It is a burning, ozone saturated smell.  A potent scent that sits in the air when the clouds obscure the supposed-constant sunshine.  It does not smell like rain.

At home, the smell of rain is diffuse; it wafts in on great gusts wet wind.  It is an intangible feeling that the world is about to storm--to toss and turn, if you will--in a fantastic upset.  The rain scent does not sit, but rather saturates.  At home, it promises downpours and horizontal raindrops, lightening and thunder that roils, water that refreshes. 

It seems odd, then, that the rainstorms at home--on landlocked prairie land-- seem much more reminiscent of storms on the high sea than the piddling rain of the coastal area.