Every morning, midway through my coffee, a flock of parrots flies past, squawking like squeak toys. They usually settle nearby out of sight, and I can hear them hoarsely conversing for a minute or two. Maybe they’re puzzling over the dearth of humans. “Another day and hardly a one in sight. Where have they gone, do you think?”

The parrots seem louder these days because the city has fallen so silent. Little traffic except for the rare car and the long sigh of the California One bus passing every now and then, hardly ever stopping now, always barreling past, then coming into view a minute or two later as it starts its climb towards the western heights. No more rattle of the cable car line on California Street.

I hadn’t realized how aware I was of air traffic. In the world of just a month ago, I would see planes crossing the sky on their way to and from SFO, tiny and black against the blue or gray in daylight, specks of light at night. In the mornings, if I were up early enough, I used to toast with my coffee cup the early bird direct flight to Sydney. I’d feel a tug of nostalgia about our trip there some years ago, imagining that half-lit tube filled with rows of sleepy people in their seats, all steeling themselves for fourteen hours in the air. Now the skies are empty except for clouds during the day, stars at night.

I look out on a world of flat rooftops. On Wednesday I spotted a couple of young men two doors down, sitting cross-legged on the black shingles and conversing, their faces grave, passing a joint.

The bells of Grace Cathedral are counting off their first hour. Nine. They will chime the hour eleven more times after this, and then stop for the night.