A Walk Down Allen Street

Now, a third of the way into the first month of the year, I feel the newness of the year.
The sun is at that low, right angle: its rays cast upon the tallest buildings, warming them heat and color. The street, at this hour, is still in soft shadow.
Walking in this small brick canyon, no more than two stories deep, I hear the distant roar of the highway.
The roar, carried and reflected by other canyons and valleys nearby, waxes and wanes. Here it is amplified, a few feet away, it falls off.
I pause to listen and wonder at the marvel.
And then, it is drowned out by people in cars, on their way to work, home, elsewhere.