Banked by clouds and neatly edged plumes of native plants and herbs, the golden gate bridge swings between two coasts. Absent in this photo, idling diesel-engined buses disgorge swarms of sightseers armed with professional nikon lenses and completely unnecessary sunhats. They amble up the short concrete ramp to chatter and take pictures of themselves in front of the red spans, then check their watches and file back down to their waiting drivers. Streams of cars, trucks, and buses issue forth in erratic streams from the emphatically 1930’s tollbooth curves, topped with a bright red clock urging the commuters to get home in time for dinner. There’s an emergency, so the streams of vehicles stop, only to be replaced by the whine of ambulances. Three firefighters recline on their truck in the parking lot below, trading jokes and occasionally looking up at the bridge deck above. Below, where the sea streams in under the iron struts, three surfers in black seal suits ride the swells and avoid the rocky breakwater. Underneath, the stream of traffic begins again, now a dull swish, disappearing toward the hills in Marin, turning golden now in early summer. 

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