The sun is setting; the moon has risen–
A ripening white bloom floating in the grey-blue sea
Of storms–
I pause beneath the sitting-tree to shed my rain gear again,
Already steaming hot and sticky under my layers.
I begin my ascent of the variegated steps of wood and mud,
Offering my boots to the brown water and grit as I remain focused on the horizon above,
(Two men stand there conversing;
their black silhouettes against the darkening sky
give the impression of two kings
discussing the fates of all who reside below.)
The old hospitals come into view,
Lit warmly in their current role of urban housing
(For, presumably, the healthy more than the infirm).
The biting crosswind here tousles my hair and stings my naked ears
As the trail narrows.
Standing at the base of the formation,
I finally surrender and retrieve my winter hat
Before scrabbling up the slick, shining red stone.
Three hundred and sixty degrees of city spread down around me
Like a magnificent, glittering skirt of my own history,
The history of countless others too–
All who survived and all who did not,
Still woven together amongst the traffic and the towers,
The gutters and the gaslamps of times past–
I sit uncomfortably on the rock as I watch the last light fade behind Twin Peaks.
San Francisco, you who have held me,
Propelled me forward and knocked me down,
Almost twenty years now you have been
My foster parent,
A figure like unto a God (or Goddess) to me…
And as I watch yet another boiling black cloud rolling in from the water towards this vista,
I swallow hard and ask you aloud:
“Why?”….
Neither the City nor the moon offer any reply.
My fingers ache in the frigid night air;
I return them to their gloves as I begin my descent
Back down from this place of gods and kings
And back into the frenzied swirl of urban life
In all of its many stages.
The path is dim in the cool, soft moonlight,
And my boots slide and slip across the wet wooden steps–
The trail feels unfamiliar and misleading in this new darkness
As strange night birds call out to one another.
I follow a tiny, trickling stream of water down the hill
To the tennis courts,
The blue-white street light eclipsing the luminous moon.
My stomach rumbles as the scents of dinners
Waft from the stately houses along the rain-soaked street.

As I approach my bicycle,
I idly fantasize of a hiding place
Where I could shelter all those who I love.