Like a rolling stone

Wind kicked up tonight, while we were climbing our local knoll to see the sunset. The neighborhood, lilliputian faux-haciendas, mini-deco houses. The house with bougainvillea growing over the door. The house with tiny square windows, and a mysterious square door cut into the side - where the trolls live.

Up the stairs and turning back, we can see downtown San Francisco, the Trans-America pyramid, the parks, the synagogue in Pacific Heights, St. Ignatius, two golden-tipped towers, the spires burning bright against the twighlight. Windows flashing back the sun, fiery sheets of glass all the way across the bay in Albany, and I wonder if anybody stands behind, looking out.

We top the knob and the wind beats at us, I can lean backward into it and feel it pushing me upright. Below us Golden Gate Park, a dark mass of green spilled into the city, 19th Avenue cutting through, pale headlights, the tops of the bridge towers beyond, Marin hills barely visible through a haze, to our left houses fall into rows and squares, broad streets leading to the ocean, the heavy ball of sun, dropping into the water, wind pushing us, sand picked up and thrown into our eyes, hair.

I look right, back towards the city, and the sky is a luxe, immodest violet. My ears whining from wind-freeze, we start back down the stairs, I can feel the wind, like a hand, shoving at my back, I balance over the long flight of stairs and feel myself cut loose, like gravel kicked free, the first drop stopping my breath but I ball up, rolling down the stairs, faster and madder down, rolling and flailing, my edges sheared smooth, a sleek center of movement, faster still, glowing with heat and motion, burning, shining back at the sun.