San Francisco is beautiful.

It is arid and sparse, yet hiding wrinkles of the terrain in the everpresent fog. The pastel colors of most of the subtropical vegetation emphasize evermore the vivid exceptions. The climate varies greatly depending on the distance from the coast and the elevation. My favorite micro-climate was right along the shoreline.

Following the shore, I came upon a girl staring into the distance.
I endeavored to learn the object of her interest and stepped closer.

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At first I saw only motionless dunes followed by greenish water and topped by blue sky.

My observation perch.

As my eyes took in more of the scene, I realized that people were only transients here. The few bipedal primates that were on the beach did not linger. Some scurried back and forth, as if on an errand of great urgency.

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Before long the object of their tasks became clear: they were charged with delivery of lunches to the local seagulls. The three sub-species of seagulls were the collective owners of the beach. Though their demeanor showed that humans were contemptable menials, most of the birds would tolerate their flightless servants as long as the food was right.

Hi-res	These majestic birds remained unimpressed with my offering of half a muffin. Still, they allowed for my provincial roots and so refrained from overt criticism.	Hi-res
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The daylight waned and so I headed back to San Francisco. Listening to Veronica's guitar, I thought that moving to California might not be a bad idea after all. Then I reflected on Californias lead in making life unsafe for law-abiding citizens and changed my mind. Living in a place where only violent criminals and politicians are armed is not my style.
Back in town a different and less likable bird reigns supreme. But I won't bore you with further depictions of that mangy specie.
Damn tourists kept getting underfoot. I wonder how the natives tolerate these pests...oh, never mind! Keep forgetting I was a tourist there, too.