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The walk up the side street leading to the boulevard was a still-life of leafy sycamores, wet lawns and neat hedges, with rose beds along the drives, air ferns, Tudor windows and leaded-glass—the late afternoon sun pulling the color out of the pale stucco, out of the roses and the leaded-glass. As we passed, a cat sat in a driveway; the evening news waited on the red cement steps. The apartments across the street with their backs warming in the sun very slowly darkened.

Passing the alley then reaching the corner, the boulevard broke on us like a fever. Light ran into our eyes. Halos hung about them. And palm fronds swayed to the slow indolence of an arid wind. The sky turned geranium orange and dissolved into a soft pastel on the blue and black glass of the high-rise offices. The signal changed from green to red, from walk to don't walk.

There were cars.

There were no trucks.

There were buses.

Palm trees swayed.

The buildings remained errect.

It was momentarily existing by means of colors and shapes. It was momentarily divulging that admist the habitual animation. Little dramas were forced upon us as we tried not to pay such close attention to such little dramas. But, turning the corner as we reached the end of the block, the boulevard broke upon us like a fever we might have caught just a few minutes ago in the car.