We left our two-block radius yesterday for the first time since the beginning of March. Two months and counting. Garage-to car-to park-to bench-to car-to garage, a change of scenery that did us both good. The city was cinematically bright and empty, sun shining on rows of shuttered houses, huge rhododendrons vamping their colors to empty streets, a blue, blue sky over the city and down the hill to the bay, not a single plane in sight. After spending so much time in our own confined space, the vistas were almost too much to take in. And deceptively bucolic. “It looks the same,” we said with some surprise, though we knew that on so many levels everything behind those closed doors has changed.

Golden Gate Park itself was more populated, even with half the roads closed off to cars. Too many folks that had no masks or had removed them to talk, too many unprotected babies. We’d come to check out the herons nesting by the lake. Seven nests, we were told. From our staked out bench, we counted only five - huge bird couples, in nests securely balanced at the top of a 4-story tree. They were safe and at home, preening in the sunshine, a miraculous sight.

We didn’t stay long and I don’t know when we’ll go out again. John and I talked over dinner about whether it’s okay to do, even if we follow the distancing rules. I’m wary. The park and the herons can only suffer so many visitors. Especially those unmasked. But, we admitted, it felt awfully good to get out... we were interrupted by the sound of distant cowbells and a scattered wave of shouts through the open door. Our neighborhood has been slow to adopt the salute to healthcare workers that we’ve seen in videos from around the world. But there it was for the second night in a row, and I felt proud and happy to hear it. We sat on the deck and listened, tentatively joining in as the moon rose over our little garden. This is our neighborhood, I thought to myself. I don't need to go anywhere. This is our home sweet home.