The clouds in Marin were wrapped cleanly along the mountainside, and moving. If a morning could be a season then this was it; popcorn hung on a Christmas tree in Summer.
The view across the bay was filled by glowing clouds far below the highway, the early light breaking through just underneath, giving what visible water there was a silverish glow. The boats, effortlessly still. I wanted to dive into that different life but my car door was locked, and moving.
Then, down towards the bay the drifting fog was everything. Crossing the bridge, morning was lost. Impossible to see the approaching tower. It emerged slowly from the fog without ending, upwards like a feeling, a feeling for a religion; immediately recognizable, immutable; part relic, part myth.
Once in the city all of the mystery of morning disappeared, of course.
There is a dinner party tonight.
More tales tomorrow.