From above, it is the edge of a continent. A peninsula that juts out to the Pacific Ocean and feeds into surrounding bay and marshland. Headlands, covered in evergreen shrubs and coastal scrub, welcome ships that pass through the Golden Gate.
It’s springtime. My city of 49 rolling hills extends to cypress and eucalyptus tree-lined trails that hold up rocky cliffs and sandy beaches. Ocean breezes often bring in the fog.
Asphalt streets embroider geography. Trees sway in the median and the white noise whoosh of cars and buses abounds. Birds perch and sing on nearby telephone lines.
Sun streams, dances and traverses my apartment in a building built 100 years ago. Bay windows anchor my home, create a sense of space and the experience of a warm embrace. Redwood floors create a myriad of patterns in my amber light-filled sanctuary.
A nest. A home. My longitude and latitude on the planet.