Pittsburg

You step outside into another world. The damp fog hangs over the land, like a blanket upon an infant. As you gaze up at the sky, gulls cry out in their thin voices, prophesying. The sad, mournful call of a loon pierces the silence. Shoomph. Shoomph. Cars slowly slip past, creating gates through the fog. Light slowly streams out as the sun breaches the mountaintops. The beams spill through, penetrating the thick blanket of fog. The seabirds begin to cry, heralding. The loon’s bright trill greets the dawn in another morning at Pittsburg.