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You roll over the San Francisco Hills and slowly make your way through the openings of the Golden Gate bridge. You hoover over the Bay waters as if to touch the ocean, but you merely want to
look at your reflection. Unlike your cousins, the clouds miles above sea level, you frolic amidst people and snake your way through buildings in the City’s Downtown area. You have probably
wondered about the quiet in the San Francisco streets this past year. You didn’t seem to have much to look over and at. But you showed up, nonetheless. Today, as I was driving over the
Dumbarton bridge to make my way to a dear friend’s house for a socially distanced dinner, I looked over to my left to see you bathe San Francisco and a part of Oakland with your signature
mist. It was a gorgeous, lush, and graceful slow roll. Your presence is like half and half cream being poured into black tea and honey but in slow motion. Although many people might complain
when you visit, it probably has more to do with the fact that when you’re around, it’s rather difficult to see the night sky. Your presence certainly makes it difficult to watch a fireworks
show and driving is an immense challenge especially in heavily wooded areas. Yet, when I was looking over at the City, it looked as though you were holding the city in an embrace. I know I
sound like the biggest child, but some days, especially in the past couple of years, I have felt compelled to get out of my head and look and be in moments of sheer wonder. According to the
National Geographic resource library, you are “a cloud that touches the ground.” That’s quite sweet, actually. The same entry stated that you are “made of tiny water droplets suspended in
the air and can form from water vapor condensing, or turning to liquid, in the atmosphere.” Also, I stand corrected, you’re far thicker than mist! One of the fascinating things I learned
about today about you was how a specific technology, the fog catcher (I mean, at least it does exactly what the name says!) was created in arid areas such as Bellavista, Peru. This
technology allows for a place such as Bellavista access to liquid water because the water droplets are captured in the catcher that results in more than one hundred gallons of water in one
day. I take for granted the coastal geography of the San Francisco Bay Area. I didn’t realize there were no rivers, lakes, or glaciers near Bellavista. I look at you a bit differently
knowing that you could possibly provide that much water. But you show up, without fail in the early mornings until the sun chases you away. There is something soothing about the cool and
crisp air that follows you into the city, but when the sun’s out, you burn off quickly. Some days, like today, I just wonder about seemingly random things and anthropomorphized you into a
person in my imagination. I mean, poets do these types of thought experiments all the time. To some degree, I guess I’m stating that so overtly because this is such a public-facing forum to
expose my thought process and ramblings to the world. But some of the best poetry I’ve read as of late just seems to encapsulate aspects of nature and the human condition as if the writer
was channeling rain, heartbeats, the ocean, wood, radio signals, coral, or fog. I’ve been trying so desperately to imagine myself inside, around, above, behind, and below the things that
make me have that childlike wonder. Today, you were one of those things and I’m glad I stopped to take a look at you today. I felt compelled to look up the foggiest place on earth! It’s a
place in Newfoundland, Canada. The second place is Point Reyes in California. I was surprised San Francisco wasn’t a top result. I mean, I didn’t spend very much time looking, honestly. I
wish this was a far more poetic and profound missive especially to something that can’t possibly write me back. Then again, I’m also the same person that tries to have conversations with
machines for research purposes! Ha! but it was gorgeous to see you rolling into the City the way you did as the sun was slowly setting. Like the beautiful Cerulean sky that greets us each
evening, you somehow captivated my attention today in a way I feel I had not really, truly taken the time to notice. But honestly, why the name Karl? If I could rename you, I would name you
after my uncle, Claro, which in Spanish means clear. I mean, at the end of the day, your presence inevitably brings clarity we oftentimes may forget. On the digital thread of the time-space
continuum, here is a post from March 28, 2011.