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