This happens every fall. I fall in love with SF all over again. Forget fall forward spring back…I can tell it’s happening when I can’t stop taking pictures and I saunter down the streets feeling like a superior San Franciscan. Ah, I think. No one else has that light, that scene, that architecture, that persistence of vision and form following function more effortlessly than SF.
It almost feels like being high. But it’s just love. A reluctant kind of love, a love you wouldn’t tell anyone else about. Except I might whisper it at Lotta’s Fountain. Miss Crabtree would get it. She’d sing it out, maybe draw a crowd at the corners of Market, Kearney and Geary.
The people over in the Hearst Building would stick their heads out the windows to listen to our song. Yes, I’d be singing too, and wondering when Old Man Sutro would be stopping by on his way out to the Cliff House and his garden full of statues.
Yes, this is what I sometimes picture mornings walking Market Street. And I wish that it might happen, although I know it won’t. It gets the morning started right, and I admit I have it good here as it stands right now.
And every now and then I hear the singing in the cold fog of night. But I know it’s just Miss Crabtree singing as she did that night she wowed the folks. And I know that it seems silly, but I sometimes see their ghosts.