There's the witching hour, and then there's the jazz hour. The jazz hour happens when the sun begins to melt into the sliver of metallic horizon, like eggs on a frying pan. Technically, it's still day, still light out, but cars and street lamps shine their bulbs in preparation for the dim and dark anyways.
I suppose you can call it dusk, but that's too passive. Dusk consists of fireflies and reedy ponds and lazy grass freckled with dandelions and forget-me-nots and ladybugs. The jazz hour is when men in suits unbutton their shirts and throw off their ties, when hands and fingers stretch out from curbs to catch the next trolley, cab or bus. Women scamper in and out of the drugstores, popping mints for first dates or grabbing popcorn before a night on the sofa. Taxis honk and buses sigh, doormen quicken their pace and waiters stand at attention. It's when crosswalks are festooned with pedestrians and restaurants breathe in before hungry diners start their stampede.
The work day is over, and all the mysteries and promises of the night are at their peaks, when everyone's heart skips a beat and dance, and in that briefest of moments, they are free and everything is wonderful and good and beautiful because everything is happening and nothing has been done yet.
It's when I pedal home, straight towards the flattening orange yolk, away from the tall skyscrapers and towards the hills, and Etta James crooning through my headphones and my sights and senses and everything is heightened and strong and right.