I am sitting by the sea. Is it wrong to refer to the Bay as the Sea? It feels poetic sometimes to refer to it as a Sea. To say that the Sea is enshrouded in mist. That birds swoop down into it chasiong after something delicious and elusive. That the islands have all disappeared and San Francisco is become a mythical place of legend and dream. It is no longer the city whose buildings you can see over the water. There is nothing but water and mist and bird and whatever poor creatures are eaten by birds and me. Sitting here alone in a car procrastinating. Pretending to be a poet. Barefoot in the car, the sun a punch-out hole in the sky. A train cries nearby and cars rumble on the highway behind me and the fog is opaque. I watch it move quickly, quickly (always to, never fro) like a ghostly pack of runners in a marathon.

I can now make out the barest glitter of light on the water, almost not there at all, just as the water is almost not there. You can tell its presence only by the lines and circles that run from the places the birds land. Otherwise it could be all sky. White and impenetrable. And I watching it with full and complex concentration as if it still had all the answers.