One dawn, after days of summer heat, I got up at first light. There was a white tail of fog in the upper valley. My dog and I headed up Homestead Trail. Surprisingly, soon we were walking into a brisk sea wind carrying cold vapors through the flexing bay trees.

Then I understood as never before how the coolness reaches our houses so consistently every night. I know we are on the edge of a continent, with the world's greatest expanse of ocean just over the ridge. But feeling the chilling dampness and walking into the swirling mists is much richer than just thinking that there is a big channel of marine air nearby. I was glad to be wearing long pants and a windbreaker.

While I was sensing the presence of the Pacific, Dinga was sensing something else. She was all the sudden reluctant to move ahead, and stood with nostrils open, ears erect, and eyes straining ahead. After a minute we advanced cautiously, seeing nothing unusual.

There is a place on Homestead Trail that particularly delights me. Just past the multi-limbed bay tree the trail passes through, it turns northward at a little drainage area. It is the edge of the woods. There is evidently underground water, and good wind protection.

All spring and now into summer this small vale has been a garden of flowers. On this early July morning there was magenta brightness of godetia, mostly still in their nightly roll-up. As I stood there admiring the scene the fog turned rosy with the strengthening sunlight.

A paint brush or two still bloomed, and some orange monkey flowers leaned towards the light from some low bay branches. Red-turned strawberry leaves rivalled the crimson of poison oak, while the rich chartreuse of yerba buena wound through the tangle of iris blades, honey suckle vines, low grasses, native blackberry, and two kinds of ferns. Exquisite in themselves, dry iris pods testified to earlier glories.

As I moved northward, away from the river of fog, prismatic mists hovered over small oaks, their moist green leaves glistening in the light of the emerging sun. A flock of tiny birds streamed through branches of each tree in turn. The dew shone on bleached oat heads and the heavy pods of rattlesnake grass.

Over my shoulder the waning gibbous moon moved westward in the clear blue sky. Eastward the vapors were disappearing. The roofs along Miller Avenue reflected light. The curtain was opening to vistas across the bay. Another summer day was ready to sizzle.

July 1988