Sunday spring mornings in Paris are too perfect to miss. Most of the city is asleep after those wild Saturday nights. The light is soft, and the places that will soon be overrun with footsteps … are empty. Pure and quiet.
I love to photograph during these “magic hours.” The light feels as if it’s warming the earth, and the few people who are out all seem to be characters from some bohemian novel. Some are still living Saturday night, stopped in time wherever they were when their body or mind hit that invisible wall. (Some never even saw the wall. They drank their way through it.) Some are the “early birds,” catching those worms … or collecting those coins in the fountain. And some are just so darn perky (singing out loud as their jogging feet make a gravel rhythm in the gardens) that they make you thankful you’re noctilien.
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