The city has a rhythm all its own, a pulse, a cadence in which we are all players.

At night a Powell Street busker’s amp booms an organ grinder-ish sound until about 10pm, when it seamlessly modulates into a softer melody more pleasing to the early-to-bed crowd at Union Square.

Merrymakers laugh loudly, converse and call out to one another as they come and go from bars and restaurants, the city’s backdrop until about 2am, when some unseen hand begins to turn down the volume on street activity.

Slowly, slowly, revelers float off, the city quiets and drifts into its slumber. Except for an occasional car, all is silent and dark by 3am.

As the sun rises just before 6am, the garbage trucks grind and beep, collecting the Friday night detritus so the process can start again in just a few hours. An occasional runner dodges trash bags and delivery trucks, while less fit early-bird tourists wander in search of a hangover-soothing breakfast.

And slowly, slowly San Francisco quickens, awakening to another day.

It only takes a tiny corner of

This great big world to make the place we love;

My home upon the hill, I find I love you still,

I’ve been away, but now I’m back to tell you…

San Francisco, open your golden gate

You let no stranger wait outside your door.

San Francisco, here is your wanderin’ one

Saying “I’ll wander no more.”

Other places only make me love you best,

Tell me you’re the heart of all the golden west.

San Francisco, welcome me home again;

I’m coming home to go roaming no more!