I usually walk up Miguel to Chenery, take a right for Taimyo, take a left for bo or yoga. Today for the first time, I went straight--up the steep hill toward the mysterious trees I’d wondered about.

Turns out Miguel angles right and changes to Beacon. It was surprisingly quiet. Beyond the trees and ivy which sheltered a secluded residence and housing under construction, the street opened out again. I came upon a dirt path--not very common in the city. I took it up a grassy hill, lush green with the recent rains. There was an outcrop of igneous rock, and two very tall eucalyptus at a small overlook from which I could see the bay, and far down 30th toward Bernal Peak. I could see St. Paul’s two steeples on Church Street below. A chilly breeze was blowing. Facing east--the only sign of the setting sun was its reflection off a gold glass skyscraper downtown.

Again, so quiet. No people. No cars moving nearby though I could easily see a couple hundred salt-box houses before me.

A man with his shaggy retriever emerged down below. The man was wearing a shirt the color of mine--ruby. I was in plain view, far above him. It was as though we were the only two humans in this vast city landscape. Because he was far away, I waved, woman to man. He looked, and timidly waved back, which pleased me. Then I retreated and found a nook in one of the eucalyptus where I could see the white line of light, cars upon the distant bridge. I couldn’t believe that with so short a walk I’d discovered such a wild and quiet place. A shrub with leaves that smelled of licorice. A homemade rope and wood plank swing. The wind blew my hair across my face, and I knew myself as alive.

I was up there for some time when I sensed movement. Just before my hideaway, there came the man with the ruby sweater, smiling secretly to himself as the trail took him within touching distance. I watched him pretend not to notice me.

I watched him walk down the hill with his long legs, calling his dog back to him. I could see his little bald spot. He had difficulty descending the slope; he was wearing slip-on sandals with white socks. I don’t think he’d intended to climb a hill when he’d come out of his house.

As I walked back on Miquel, I stopped on the bridge that crosses above San Jose, noisy with rush hour traffic. A stray Mylar heart floated up and up, the foil side catching light from the west. I watched until it was just a dot in the dusky sky.

Happy Valentine’s Day.