I arrive at the park near the Lawn Bowling Club. It is often occupied by the elder set, dressed in crisp white attire, a uniform of sorts. Usually, stark white stands in sharp contrast to the vibrant green grass. Today, it is clear the formality of tradition has been lost to the pandemic. Everything is more casual now, because we no longer have time for posturing. 

The man who waters the grass for the bowlers, notices me reading a sign. It has an image of a crow and says, "Don't worry. I'm not real". He explains to me that he has to use a decoy to scare away critters. In order for it to work, he must put the decoy on its back. This results in the park getting many phone calls about a dead or injured bird. Now there is a sign for the humans, but the other animals still fall for the ruse. 

Around the bend, I enter the Aids Memorial Grove. It is absolutely stunning, a tribute to those who left us too soon. The plants are lush and green, even more so than many other areas of the park. The strength of spirit of those that are honored here is palpable. The care with which it was designed, and nurtured is immense. This is a sacred place. Hearts are mended here. 

I go to see the dahlias, but it may be too soon. They are few and far between, and half of them are missing. Maybe it is early or maybe their tending was lost to quarantining gardeners. I admire a few lonely blooms. Behind me, a man in business attire sits on a bench, listening to heavy metal music that is trapped inside his backpack.  

At the Conservatory of Flowers, a man wearing red, white and blue pants, and an absurdly quaffed head of hair, aggressively throws rocks. He intends to break the glass, but the glass is now wood. In his frustration, he bends and weaves wildly and grabs more rocks. I want to intervene, but I don't. He talks to the wind and traipses on. 

From the nearby tunnel comes the sound of live music. I follow it and see a group of men playing. The tunnel amplifies the sound, and I stand in the middle listening. The walls are covered with various messages of past and present. I place money in the hat and hope to hear more, but the men soon pause to put away their instruments. 

Golden Gate Park is the garden, playground, gym and sanctuary of so many locals and tourists alike. It will always be a place of refuge for me. It is not as if I don't see its troubled bits; it is just that the shiny bits shine brighter for me.  

The fog tries to mask the blue sky, but the sky shines through. I'm dressed for summer, but summer in San Francisco is like early spring elsewhere. And, it is not summer yet. I decide to enjoy the crisp air rather than be cold. 

I tell myself that I am so grateful to be here. Of all the places I could be, this is where I chose; this place makes me glad. Although I rest my head a bit north of here, this city has drawn me in for a very long time. The hardships it brings are rewarded in the diversity of the landscape, the wildlife as well as the people. 

The pandemic has weighed on me. Like many, my time has been my own - and yet not. I am less than a week away from being fully vaccinated and past the wait time. I look forward to having a semblance of a normal life after being the utmost of careful. Although I greatly value the time I have spent taking these photos, I miss people and real interactions. My outings have been like an extended game of dodgeball, quick weaving and wandering. 

My primary form of expression the past several years has been painting. If anything, this past year, I have gained a renewed love of photography. My walks with my camera allow me to enjoy my external world rather than retreating into the internal. My eyes are constantly searching, my mind cataloging my surroundings. A narrative unfolds but it has its own buoyancy, follows its own direction in spite of any baggage I might bring. It is freeing, always rewarding and keeps me completely present.  

Walking around one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in San Francisco, I ogle the many mansions. They astound in more ways than one. I know I will never live in one, but this is a pastime I enjoy when I am feeling frivolous. I spot a few empty ones and laugh at one with celebrity cardboard cut outs in the window. From a distance, they do look real, but I dare say they would not deter an intruder. 

I find a wide set of stairs and wander up to see where they lead. Around a short wall, a cow greets me, still, and of concrete. I admire her for a short while. There is nowhere to wander from here, so I return to the street. Tagged in the sidewalk, is TOFU. I picture a block of tofu wandering the streets at night looking for wet cement to scrawl into. 

A tree has two elbows. Is it a professional contortionist when it is not standing watch over the sidewalk? A blue light beckons on an adjacent wall. To what or to whom does it signal or summon? 

A rose adorned skull is painted on a bright yellow sign, marking the dead end. Orchids catch the afternoon light and their softness comforts me. They are much more unwithered than I. 

An abandoned coffee cup makes me want to sit in a cafe and mindlessly whittle away the hours, but I don't. I won't. I see a mustache shape on the sidewalk and try to align it to the shadow of my face. It is all askew. 

On a ramshackle stoop, a policeman is talking to a woman in a wheelchair. He grabs hold of a large painting of a tiger that festoons the steps. The tiger is wearing glittering accoutrements. He tugs and pulls until the tiger meets its demise. I wonder the reason for this altercation with the imaginary. 

Walking on a hill amongst the dead, I picture myself on the bus. I passed this place hundreds of times on the way to my art studio. As the bus drove by, I could see glimpses of gravestones and thought, I would like to visit. For some reason, I never did. 

The pandemic brings me to locations I have neglected, or places of which I was previously unaware. I love cemeteries, however inappropriate or odd that may seem (but not a far stretch for most artists). I enjoy the peaceful, natural setting. Surface patina and flower fade are my muses in the garden of the departed. The statues are an outdoor museum of angels and saints. 

Now here, I am gleeful, albeit not quite sure if I am "allowed". Alone at first, I finally notice some dog walkers. These aren't just any dogs, but seeing eye dogs for the blind. The training school is not far from here, another place I have previously seen from the bus window. I wonder if the dogs realize the good service they provide, and the undeniable companionship. 

This cemetery is charming but poorly maintained. Many gravestones are in ruin or disrepair, fences fallen. Enamel portraits are cracked or have evidence of bullet damage, faces obscured. Were these individuals purposefully targeted, or is it just haphazard hooligan shenanigans? The grounds are left mostly to the elements, not overly planted with that golf course green grass. 

Recently there was a murmuration of starlings here. It went on for several days with much excitement and observation. One would think the birds would have brought me here then. Instead I chose to come at a time when the gatherings of those staring at the sky are absent, and the birds have flown away. 

Exploring steps untaken
Spots familiar
Lead to ventures new
One corner turned
Another skipped
Looking with fresh eyes
A heavy chest breathes deep
Energy renews
Houses dance in pastel hues
Flowers bloom from recent rains
Cardboard tightly bound
Empty of yesterday's sustenance
Clues to the ones still waking
Quiet now
Danger signs ever present
Cannot untether the excitable soul
Inquisitive mind
Propels a hungry heart
Out in the avenues
The sky so blue
Voluptuous clouds 
Afternoon rainbow
Colorful grin of the sublime

Out here the houses are close together and have great character. The lack of front yards either leads to sparseness or it results in an over zealous attempt to plant as much as possible in a tiny amount of dirt. I used to do the same when I lived in San Francisco years ago. 

A twenty something me excitedly planted flowers inside a square of concrete. I had planted them a few times before. Each time the small space got filled with trash and dog poop. My love of flowers kept me optimistic and I continued trying. My upstairs neighbor, who was fond of having parties and throwing cigarette butts on my backyard flowers, accused me of being a martyr. I resented his bitter critique and scowled as he walked past me on the sidewalk. The raccoons fought me on the other flowers I planted in the shade between houses. It was the beginnings of what would become a greenish and stubborn thumb. 

Now, on my walk, I notice several dilapidated old vehicles with an abundance of character. I imagine them new, tanned youngsters behind the wheel, following the sun that ends where the fog begins. Today they are held together with tape and rope, and dreams of what once was. They hold story upon story of where their wheels went and of the days they sat still. I admire their sun soaked and salted patina. 

Moving past memory and present day pondering, I cherish the blue sky. I seek and find a state of calm. When the shadows become too long, I seek the brightness that created them. My camera documents while I do this delicate dance. Time circles around itself and feet are firmly planted, except when they are not. Squint, click and step. 

Good morning ocean. Someone has left you flowers. Did you happen to notice them? The wind has battered their delicate petals but it makes me love them all the more. I have a feeling that they may not actually be for you but for someone you took. They could also be in honor of someone who held you dear. I will never know, and you can't answer, so I will leave it to wonder. 

Good morning seagulls. You are lucky you do not have to be socially distant. Thanks for letting me join your gathering for a moment. I know no one hired a photographer, but lucky for you, I currently work for free (for birds anyway).  

Good morning ravens. You and I have been friends for a while now. We pretend to ignore each other, and you do that silly dance of trying to get away, when you clearly want to be close. No, I did not bring a picnic, and will not be leaving any garbage for you to collect. You do alright though. Your numbers have grown and you show a vastness of age and agility. There are some scrappy ones among you, but aren't there always? I dare say, I find them charming.  

Good morning humans. For all that need to hear it, we must do better. 

Simply being can occasionally be enough these days. It isn't always important to be poetic, profound or hardworking. It might be better to be genuinely awake and aware. In times of pause, one is an observer, a quiet wanderer, gathering energy to propel firmly forward.  

Hummingbirds are natural at social distancing. It is rare that I can capture a photo of them as they flit about. As I raise my lens, they look back at me and quickly move away. They collect the sweet bits and abandon confrontation. On the rare opportunity a hummingbird is caught still and resting, the iridescent feathers of neck and chest appear to glow from within. In these instances, I am still, breath held. The moment will quickly pass, and I must take full advantage.   

Once a hummingbird found its way into the empty storefront attached to my art studio. The confused bird flew up near the rafters of the high ceilinged warehouse space. My studio mates and I gathered around in hopes the little creature would return to the outdoors. We made sure the doors were open wide and we talked to the bird as if it understood. He found a resting spot on a chain that was pulled tight to hold the room's industrial lighting. Meanwhile, we all looked to our phones and computers to tell us how to lure the hummingbird outside. 

The color red was touted as a color for which the bird would be fond. We gathered red buckets, a red quilt, red paintings etc. We stood outside waving them around foolishly. The hummingbird was as still as I had ever seen one. I took a break from the red dance to take a few photos.

When our sea of red failed us, we turned on the HVAC system in hopes that the wave of air would send the bird flying in the right direction. To our surprise, he continued to sit watching the harebrained humans. We gave up and decided to leave him to his own devices. As we buried ourselves in art making again, he eventually flew away, on his own terms. 

Since my current camera hit its demise from tiny grains of sand, I use my camera from 8 years ago. It has dings and scrapes on the lens from the bicycle accident that broke my wrist. This camera, although damaged, is an object of value. I add a few more photos to the thousands it has helped me create. The quality is not my focus as much as the act of seeking and understanding, the space and time moved through. Objects give clues to intangible consciousness, an ebb and flow of chance circumstance.

A man looks at his phone while walking a dog, a zig zag of unawareness. I hopscotch through the street guessing his next step. "Pick a side", I think loudly. I look around for an opening with no humans. I take my mask off one ear to breathe deeply, then quickly wrap the ear strap back around my ear. I am tired of not walking with my mouth naked and haphazardly ajar, for no other reason than it is how things used to be. I ponder when breathing unencumbered will be safe again. I am frustrated with these repeated thoughts, but it is not about me. It is about all of us working together for the wellness of humanity. I know this needed wellness extends way beyond simply wearing a mask. 

I walk past an apartment building where two men are chatting while smoking cigarettes. One yells to me, "Great day, isn't it?!" I yell back, "I guess as great as it can be!" I feel bad for my lack of enthusiasm when his energy is upbeat. He yells back, "It's always great when you have rock stars!" I am not sure what this means, but picture myself at a rock concert, standing right next to the stage. The men continue chatting and I walk on. 

I pass a honeysuckle vine again. This plant, I can smell through my mask. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. My eyes well up, but I do not let the tears drop. I let the plant signal a feeling of known comfort and continue on, finding courage in the perplexing present.