From the top of the street, looking down on the rest of Los Gatos, one could see the fog creeping low over downtown.

It watched us take a vague, silent leave--the gesture strikingly similar in texture and memory to what I was leaving behind the low bridge--smooth, crisp fog--lush, minty pine--all bound and intertwined within itself.

Leaving, I witnessed the senses, sounds and smells exhume and drift behind the foothills as I drove to the right of (never quite losing sight of) the sun--leaving terse and tart details behind in the mist (which was starting to fade with the rising sun).

The concrete (bright and bold) present gives way to the abstract (dusky and delicate) past as I drive once again towards those soft, gently-swaying hills.

--Spring Break freshman year