Ride (San Francisco cries)

In cold wind in back of Mike’s old truck, passing north over the Golden Gate, I tried to imagine the Pacific Ocean, looking out in that direction. San Francisco cries because it can see the clouds at night in its own light. San Francisco cries because it’s on the edge of the earth, on the painful edge. It was raining in Sonoma County. We laughed and said good-bye, friends. San Francisco cries for every drop of rain that falls to wash its walls of stone.

October 1971