In coastal SOuthern Caqlifornia the sea-mist rises early in the morning and crawls down the streets, hangs from trees and flowers, and makes everything look ghostly and intimate like a lover's sleeping breath. The trees look like explosions of fog and the streets only crawl if there is any traffic at all.

By nine AM, the mists have been banished by the sturdy persuasions of a rising sun, the skies clear away to a pristine blue dotted with white fluff, and the city bustles to life. The temperature climbs from 55 degrees F at sunrise to 75 degrees in short order, over-coats and sweaters are tossed into the back seats of cars, dogs come out to romp and mark their turf on the grassy fields and canyon paths, and the world is blessed with a golden, benevolent warmth that lasts until sundown.

Then the mists start to move in again, wisping through the dark streets and across the busy highways as people head for home after a day of busy productive work, one assumes. No guarantees, of course. The weather does not care whether you've been productive or not.

The clouds roll in, mist again covers the valleys, and night falls in peace on a comfortable land. Occasionally Orion, a few planets, and the inconstant moon peer through the mist to reassure the world that space has not gone awry. Only the foolish and naive are reassured, but the gesture is always appreciated.