After last night’s dinner I sat on the couch with Michael and we read our ipads and mulled over the days news. A bird began singing so clearly I glanced at the window to make sure we hadn’t overshot and stayed up until dawn. The night was still black, and a glance at the time told me it was only a little after 1:00 AM.

A lovely sound, but I associate it with morning, and I wondered if it would keep us from sleeping. I wish I knew enough ornithology to identify the song. Was it audible because the nights are now so quiet? Normally at about that time we’d be hearing the hooting warble of night clubbers making their way home from Polk Street.

Maybe we heard it because birds in the city have become bolder, like a lot of other wildlife. Videos are popping up showing coyotes strolling casually on San Francisco streets. Maybe birds that normally roost in the leafy parks or suburbs have moved downtown too.

San Francisco is supposed to have been hit by a “storm” this morning and later today. Currently the “storm” I see now through my window is little more than a sullen gray sky and occasional droplets on the windows. Maybe there will be hail tonight, winds that shake the panes, or even the Bay Area’s half-hearted thunder, which tends to be distant thumps and scrapes high overhead, like someone moving furniture in the attic.

In any event, there will be no walk on the roof today. For now, we sit writing at our respective desks, Sam Phillips singing “Strawberry Road” on the CD player. I’ve showered, brushed my teeth and washed my face, but I’m not sure I’m going to bother changing out of my pajamas. Our kitchen is well stocked now with roast chicken and veggies and aside from this and working on my novel, my one stab at productivity will probably come tonight when I make the blueberry muffins I promised.

Our century-old, rent-controlled apartment is a two-bedroom by San Francisco standards, which is to say, it has a living room and a dining room in addition to an actual bedroom. By tacit consent, the first part of the day is generally spent in separate rooms at our desks, mine in the living room, Michael’s in the dining room. That way, when we emerge from our working comas late in the afternoon, we act pleasantly surprised to see each other.

The cat divides her time between sleeping on her stand next to my desk or in her box next to Michael’s until the steam heat comes on. Then she retreats to her spot near radiator in the bedroom. At about 10:00 PM she emerges to tell us it’s time for us to go to bed.

At the end of the evening, we’ve gotten in the habit of watching Sky News, which, at about midnight, shows us a live, British morning news show. Judging from this, morning news shows are now about as apocalyptic as everything else is these days, with intro themes similar to the music from the Stephen Rea “Here’s what’s about to happen…” scene in V for Vendetta. One expects at any moment a shot of a gloved hand knocking over a domino.