Coming home each evening

When I come home from campus on my bike in the evening, there's a moment when I make a left turn off a busy street onto a quieter one, and this quieter street, half commercial, half residential is lined with trees in bloom. The air is mild, the trees smell good. The houses are a mixture of small condo buildings and cottages for the workers building Stanford University a hundred years ago: a single story in wood with stairs up to a shady front porch where people keep chairs to sit and watch the world go by. One of them must be rented by a group of post-university young people, because I see them sitting around a table on the porch late in the day, and when I go by earlier, the remains of their dinner, glass, a been can, are still there.