How can I have starred at this scenic view for so many hours over the years, and still find some stimulation? How do I notice new things each time?
I watch the black cloud of swarming birds move about the airspace, sometimes weaving in and out of the open-air steeple of Mission High. I survey the landscape from high above, my eyes follow the cluster of buildings that bunch together in the eastern neighborhoods, and begin accumulating in mass and bulk as they approach downtown.
This is the divide between town and city, and somehow I love them both.
The town is some Medieval settlement, with humble buildings huddled close together, church spires penetrate the uniform height limit. The city stands boldly, fronting its gazers from all directions, demanding attention from all. So many of these buildings are brash and ugly, only a few are elegant, with an air of nobility.
Sometimes I imagine a disaster-- like an earthquake-- dissolving the giants to dust in selectively random succession. The town would remain intact, resilient in a sustained quaint density, while the brash city would crumble like Rome.
Sometimes I imagine a different disaster, that relentless construction and wealth raises the city to limits unthought. Skyscrapers rise swiftly, towering over their predecessors. Maybe a new city rises, or a city within the city. Maybe they'd be glassy and thin, with sleek protrusions to define a new skyline. Maybe they'd be ironclad, shiny but stoic like the giants of Art Deco. Maybe they would destroy other buildings around them, crushing the Old with a defiant New.
I wish I could be with the birds, flying over the city. I could watch San Francisco from above, swooping over the hills, in and out of the fog, above rooftops and through narrow alleys, to and from those monstrous towers, watch it grow or crumble.
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