A Window Reflection

I am sitting here looking out over a grey Parisian courtyard, eating a warm croissant, drinking coffee and listing to Maurice Cheviller. The cracked and worn wooden french window is slightly a jar to allow in the scents of the streets below, while the space heater keeps churning away trying to keep out the cool January breeze. Not too severe mind you, just a chill and a hidden sun, but also a sense of something coming. This seems to be a thing that makes Parisian winters particularly interesting. You wallow in the depths of December's cold grey glove only to emerge, still freezing, but embraced by a  feeling of anticipation, of newness, or at the very least, possibility. A living restlessness grows a spring of progress beneath each stagnate street and in each hibernating tree. All things that do not speak vibrate with pent up discoveries - promises, promises - in everything. I have never seen Paris is full bloom, but from what January is telling me, it's going to be spectacular.