Something Is Happening In Paris

The air sits thick with the murky mist of the Seine that claws at and claims the smells of fresh bread and cured meats.  Gusts from the stacked, sweating vents opposite send endless snowflakes spiralling upwards beyond the fourth floor window.  Customers from the myriad boutiques draw out behind them a citrus floral scent that is too soft not to soon vanish.  Cars and buses, voices and buskers: someone somewhere is always playing the accordion.  The disjointed melody of cello practise drifts from somewhere above me but the notes sink and melt in between taxis and through animated conversation.  Hands tucked deep in pockets are sealed in against a stealthy cold.  Scarves tangle on the wind, two angular elbows kiss through layers of fleece and nostrils burn as they apologies for jostling down the pavement.  Expert sleight of hand ensures an old woman will not know she had been pick-pocketed until she is home.  Street lights do little now but in an hour or so when the light dies they will shine against the darkness in this city that always glows.  It is l’heure verte but even the cobbles are white.  Mute pigeons nestle between the cursive wrought iron of the Metro sign, soon to return to roost like the tailored suits flowing into the ground below.  The air at waist height is reclaimed by children just sprung from school to jump, ankle-deep in the drifts of snow.  The boot prints look almost warm as they trail off into the distance in every direction, sporadically visible through plumes of shallow breath.  A young couple with a baby, who I cannot help but watch play out their lives in the window directly opposite, sit about the floor on cushions as he crawls.  Gloved hands curl around coffee cups as smokers everywhere sacrifice warmth for beauty at perennial pavement tables.  The city whispers promise at the same moment a tweed librarian retrieves his paper, not realising he has also dropped his hat until a young girl, all glowing ringlets in her woollen dress, hands it back.  No one needs to see the Pont des Arts to know its carpet of snow is dotted with red wine-lipped students laughing into the icy mist.  Three nuns let the wind sweep them across the road into the sanctuary of a fragrant covered walkway.  A woman floats past a man who closes his eyes while he fills with the mint conditioner in her almond hair and forgets for a second the holes in his shoes.