And behind Treasure Island a surreal light enveloped Berkeley.
Our guest, someone his nibs has known for forty years, headed off to the airport and home. We frittered time and the fog burnt off for a glorious day.
This afternoon I was settled into my comfy chair, working on a Sudoku, when I heard fog horns. Deep horn from the main channel. Medium horn from a ship. Lighter echo from the bridge.
The afternoon fog was creeping in and slouching over to Berkeley.
A shot before Berkeley succumbed. (The fog tendrils have reached the Campanile as I type this at about 6:45P. The sun is still shining here. But not there. ...)
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