There's a kind of fog that glides in at night, slides in a thread at a time. You feel it first, a hint of moisture on a nighttime walk, sweet with the scent of the sea. It trails through the streets, refracts light, blurs edges, muffles sound, emboldens coyotes, collects at the base of the mountains and lures us high into the hills at sunrise to look down on our town, wrapped in shifting white.