A precursor to dusk settles here. The rays lower their angle of approach.
Darkness is not yet an actor, though full sunlight no longer plays a continuing role.
Forgotten dozing businesses line the streets. Cloudware dots the skies. Suave and cerebral aristos and scoundrels walk the streets, but mostly ranchers and kickers amble beside the seared grass.
Even when indirect, the light is stark, yellow, overwhelming, not the luminist atmosphere of a Midwestern town, or the cool blue brightness in a Manhattan canyon.
A summer downpour breaks the stillness, scores it, until the form of silence changes, shifts to become something else. Traffic emits only white noise, that quickly fades into the background.
Then the rain relents, the light returns to outline the surfaces and spaces. The eyes glance up, and like a painted backdrop behind mirrored towers, a rainbow stretches over Maple Street's Mexican bars.