As evening nears, a ridge of mist builds on the sea, lifts, pushes east from Half Moon Bay, looms high above the tree-swarmed line of coastal hills, pours, here and there, on over, blots away the ridge, its evergreens. Behind the mist, the inner eye builds tall chateaus. Dark bears, extinct, lip berries in deep shadow; hills sprout snow fields, erns. Some rocky crypt shrouds parchment secrets, mouldering where silent beetles creep in dust.
The fog comes on. A counter-lift of mind brings back the mundane hills, erases mythic form before they ride the mist across the valley to our homes, keeps them for musing only, sees true pearly evening sky, its salmon fires.