An evening in San Francisco by Thomas Rogers Muyunga Mukasa

A cold wind blows through San Francisco,
a dark fog twirls above,
in competition is the sun-set orange glare,
organic perfumes mix with syrupy smells,
chimneys spew out warm fumes,
bitter pungent aromas spicy, grainy and gaseous,
the smoke rises in snake lines,
playfully lingering slices from the setting sun;
are split as if members of a team,
the golden opalescent glare dims rapidly like cooling steam,
noisy chirps and cawing replaced by soft leaves dropping,
a cold numbness caresses the extremities,
a persistent reminder,
patrons dining in street side restaurants,
candlelight flickers invitingly,
a flurry of nods by those giving or taking orders,
occasional drop of cutlery,
those waited upon satisfactorily pat their full bellies,
a group here and there of many taking strolls,
some hold hands as they share an animated conversation,
all are content they had an evening in San Francisco.

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