7:22 AM

The sun rises in Saratoga.

On the last dawn of 2013, I sat on a hill with ☃. It's a special place that we go to, hidden just a short hike away. From our perch above the fog, I can pinpoint every place that has meaning to me: the light-bedecked Safeway strip mall, assorted Asian shops along De Anza Boulevard, sprawling silhouettes of yellow East Bay mountains.

As morning matures, tips of trees puncture the woolly cloud blanket; constellations of crows soar across the sky, weaving between bay laurel branches. We receive the sun with squints, watch it gild the day. A new layer of light, fine as foundation (NARS Sheer Glow, to be exact. This is for you, Julianne!), settles into the concrete crevices and nettle-ridden notches of our hometown. 

I remember the old hymn by Folliott Sandford Pierpoint:

For the beauty of the earth

for the beauty of the skies

for the love which from our birth

over and around us lies

For the beauty of each hour

of the day and of the night

hill and vale, and tree and flower,

sun and moon, and stars of light.

If every day began this way...