The fog is retreating from the Painted Ladies, leaving beads of moisture on my sketchbook like unwritten punctuation.

From this window on Steiner Street, I watch the summer sun strike the ornate cornices of houses that refuse to yield to time. These redwood skeletons endured the great shaking and the fire of 1906, their bay windows still reaching out over the steep asphalt like the prow of a ship seeking a new horizon. I find myself sketching the rhythmic geometry of the gingerbread trim, wondering about the dreamers currently waking behind those pastel facades. There is a stubborn, creative grace in how this city rebuilds itself upon the same steep hills, always leaning forward into the salt-air breeze. I suspect the next great American symphony is being hummed right now in a sun-drenched parlor just a few doors down.