west village, the eve of the eve of christmas eve.

from a stroll in the west village, bundled and laden with last minute parcels. it's exquisite, this tangle of streets singing of red brick and inky iron, fresh pine wreaths and wine-hued velvet. i would pass through a fir forest or by a particular townhouse, then retrace my own footsteps and pass once more, such was the unbridled delight. 

and then there are certain stories -- there are so many stories -- no photograph can tell, and not pictured here: the smell of garland wrapped and winding, the neighborly chatter spilling from bistros into the streets, the homesong spun by sight of a windowpane warmed by tree light, the feeling of christmas.