Days getting shorter. Soon it will be too cold. Too dark to sit
on the porch and look at the meadow as the sun goes down.
Last night I was lying on the couch. Pillows. Warm blankets.
reading Herb Caen's Baghdad: 1951.
As I turned the pages, the way San Francisco was in the early 1950's
came flooding back.
I remembered walking slowly up Washington St. After dinner in Chinatown.
My hand on Sid's arm. The afterglow of Chinese noodles and art talk.
The sun setting on the Bay. Viewed intermittently at the foot of steep
streets at one intersection after another. As we neared his house.