 This is a kind of cheerful poem about San Francisco. I'm just warning you with that. Waiting near Trader Joe's. Waiting near Trader Joe's on the corner, heavy bags, Bryant 27 muni bus late. I am American, hate lateness. Hold that thought. Retired? No job. No little kids. Is it not foolish to care if a bus is late? Look at this. So many people walk to and fro. What if I thought but did not say, you are beautiful? An experiment. Two young men swinging arms, walking together, one black in a white t-shirt and one white in a black t-shirt. Yes. Beautiful. Small family. Hispanic? She, voluptuous and merry. He smiling down at their chubby ringlet-haired toddler in her stroller. Yes. Beautiful. And so are the young boy and girl. A vision walking as if they were ready to stop and dance. Athletic looking man, dark curly hair, laughing his small white dog running, playful, swift. Oops. Swift Asian woman almost running somewhere she has to go to. The shy looking pale in glasses, wearing an orange shirt with unreadable messages. Two women with short white hair and new trousers and blouses you see on a Macy's head. They went on and on. Silently saying, you are beautiful. Was a little like meditation or getting a little drunk or waking up from a pleasant dream of meadows and flying over trees. And then up above a gliding hawk so perfect as if an omen of the freedom of flight, of dancing in the air. Something strange, wild bird over a city, a gift of wilderness. And then I saw them. Two friends I'd lost track of and worried about. They were advancing toward me, smiling faces, alive and well. They were so beautiful. And as we hugged and spoke, the Bryant 27 Muni bus was coming down Hyde Street.