The fog-misted mirror brightens as almond-scented breath blows across the Bay through the pursed golden lips of the Central Valley. Deep-throated horns sound reveille as the sun lifts the air like a child’s balloon over the Embarcadero; dew glistens on hydrangeas that ripple down Lombard Street and the sky over Washington Square clears to blue as easterly winds blow the ocean back across the Farallons.
Sailboats cris-cross the waters, straddling wind and water, racing from bridge to bridge, wing on wing.
In afternoon, the Valley draws in her breath and the fog races back across the Headlands to kiss giant redwoods and ancient California oak.
Sailboats have retired to their berths as horns sound their tattoo. Night falls across the harbor and all is still save the rhythmic clanking of rigs swaying to the pull of an unseen moon high above the damp night air.