The dawn up north of the Golden Gate was cool and wisps of fog, tendrils dissipating with the weak dawn. Scooting into San Francisco International, camped out in a departure lounge with diminutive, wee mum, I watched, I mean it was brilliant, sparkling morning once we got over the hills, and in towards SF.
Then I looked up, and the fog was rolling in again. Never make it out of SFO, not as the clouds spilled into the bowl of the town.
The memories run deep. Still, watching clouds and fog spill over the mountains reminds me of scenes from Far West Texas and Southern New Mexico as the mountains would be capped by clouds, or, in a more interesting arrangement, the clouds spilled over from one side to next, like a bowl tipped on its side, the milky clouds starting to pour out.
About the author:
Born and raised in a small town in East Texas, Kramer Wetzel spent years honing his craft in a trailer park in South Austin. He hates writing about himself in third person. More at KramerWetzel.com.
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