and before the street begins
and there the grass grows soft and white
and there the sun burns crimson bright
and there the moon bird rests from his flight
to cool in the peppermint wind
let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
and the dark street winds and bends
past the pit where the asphalt flowers grow
we shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow
and watch where the chalk white arrows go
We hiked to the end of Glen Canyon Park and there was this moment where we knew the sun would be gone in 45 minutes and the zipcar was due back behind us in one hour, and we looked at each other and pressed on — off across the empty schoolyard, following the road up ad up until it ended at Twin Peaks; climbing higher yet until all of San Francisco, the bay, the ocean, the bridges and mountains beyond that, all lay all below us like a rumpled blanket. We lingered at the top of the world for a bit before hurrying back down, across the road and through the canyon, shadows chasing us as we went.
Wherever you are this week I hope you’re safe and warm and with loved ones. See you in December.
poem by Shel Silverstein