In the morning there is a mist on the creek. The surface is completely undisturbed except for the bait fish that are feed on the morning hatch. Their first taste of the day. Gulls circle low over the water. The air is chilled. I stand, enshrouded in the cotton robe I bought last August in Porta Porquese. Thoughts of the campaign and the November 4th election creep in. On November 5th will it be American Horrific or a New Day in America?