The intricate sounds of Orozco's Guitarra and   the beep, beep, from passing automobiles fill   the warm air, and rise towards the burdened sky as  Rain materializes from thick grey nimbus clouds,    and falls onto the City; yet, the mood is not somber. It is Sabbath. The mid-April air smells of wet dog, and filth,   the smell of the City's deep cleanse from morning showers. The birds perform their cantata   as Orozco orchestrates their instrumental. The asphalt sidewalks glisten from the rain, no   longer holding yesterday's shit. The dusty jalopies, in the same parking spots   since 1983,