The weather's changing. So still and cold at dawn that even the racketing crows sleep in. A thick swath of fog blurs the horizon, Catalina gone, swallowed in white. It feels like maybe rain is coming.
Each year around this time the evening sky thins out, gives way to sunset pinks and blues so pure you can almost hear them, feel them settle into your chest like memory. The sunrise, by contrast, is brash and garish, clownish, a bravura look-at-me aria.

We in the gallery, the surfer checking the swells, the day laborer awaiting his crew, the sleepless new mom, the dog walker, the commuter, the cleaning lady, we stop and watch and applaud nonetheless.