The haze is only now creeping near. All day it has covered the valley, obscuring the southern view. A few hours ago, I traveled to the southern end of town, and the haze began no more than a thousand yards from my house, and grew thicker as I went down the hill. By the time I returned, it had moved northward another five hundred yards. Here, the day is bright, verging on hot, and the mountains to the north and east stand in sharp relief, but in the haze, visibility is no more than a mile. Though it is only moisture, and possessed of a dank odor, it looks very much like smog, and as I watch it approach, I feel a tinge of nostalgia for Los Angeles. Within an hour, at most, I suspect we will be engulfed, and the shapes of the mountain ridges will grow dim. For the moment, it is only a hint of vagueness that moves in the air, and the oblivious birds continue to sing as though spring had arrived. But this haze is winter's breath, exhaled during a nap from which it will soon wake. I will be pleased if the haze turns to a proper fog. Even if it doesn't, it's been fun to watch, and a nice break from the meteorological niceness of recent days.