San Francisco Poem

Sometimes I think living in San Francisco is a study in variations on being cold. It is easy to loose count.

In the late summer it is cold only in its lack of being hot.

In fall the days might be sunny and hot, but the mornings and evenings are precursors to the almost cold winter to come.

In winter it is cool, but it is colder in the surrounding areas, the degrees decrease at a rapid clip as you drive eastward, the reverse of the thermometer climbing in summer when you desperately wind your way out of the swirling, foggy mess.

Spring has some warm days, but the word damp comes to mind.

Late spring early summer is your best chance of being warm in this city; you can go around all day thinking the weather is oh so nice and that summer is around the corner, until you step onto a BART train importing sweltering heat from the delta. It is at this moment you realize you were just variation number 48 of being cold.

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