By Jackie Leavitt
Thousand of white raindrops cascade from the steel gray sky, bouncing off the pavement like dancing marbles before disappearing up into their self-shattering dampness. They tap-tap-tap like drumming fingertips on the roof, getting louder and softer as the wind shifts through the streets. Cars roll down the paved roads, the tires ripping and whispering through the wetness, rising to a roar through the deeper puddles. My fingers are stiff and frigid as I type in the café, staring out through the glass doors, open to the elements. For the first time in three years since moving to San Francisco, I am in the city’s chilly winter embrace – no longer sunny, yet still as captured.