If I lived in Ohio, I wouldn’t be watching black-jibbed sailboats rock across the foggy bay.
I wouldn’t see the lone seagull rise on the breath of the wind, or the broccoli-top trees of fort mason quiver, or the glorious brick of the empty penitentiary and its immortal living lighthouse.
I wouldn’t walk down to the water to rest the mind, or down the sharp hill to Polk street for an overpriced loaf of bread, or to north beach on Fridays for homemade pasta then cannolis.
I wouldn’t have the dream of hopping on my bike to tear across the bridge and tunnel up hawk hill with sweat beading on my lips and brow.
I wouldn’t have the identity of belonging to San Francisco as we strive to lead cutting-edge companies, leave legacies, serve as cultural creators and maintainers, purveyors of fine things;
explorers of redwood forests and mountains, vast golden hillsides where we sip wine, listen to the exquisite hum of nature, and shiver come August when it burns to the ground.