Damp earth and fur

Door hung open, just a crack,

from that pet place, all that grooming.

And it hit me, like a physical whack,

the air suddenly blooming

with it: heavy, humid, something wild

and low, something almost buried.

Not just animal, but dirt, piled

up and wet, a memory carried

straight through the bone. My throat felt tight,

a taste of something lost, not just scent.

For a second, caught in that bright

sun, the street became a place I went

long ago, then snapped back. Just a smell,

and the door swinging, then closed again.