The cold is waning, though perhaps remain a pair or more days when – at least in the nights – winter will descend over Berlin. Privately, I was disappointed with the warmth, outlook undressed by snow, and the unwintery light. Possibly it is the moisture in the air which causes the distinct opalescent light only to arrive deep below freezing; this for me is winter, and the crisp, empty sound of the world once white decked.
The plummeting of mercury (yes, the thermometer outside our former-BVG office window is certainly that most fleet of metals) was for me then a release from disappointment – riding towards the Spree with cheeks, ears iced and burning, a thin warmth of wan sun when caught at the lights, blackened piles of chewed-up snow, unheimlich sublimating massifs of tyre grit, oil and ice.
Winter. I barely notice, shrouded in thick walls, heating, double-glazed windows and my perch on the floor only seeing boughs of the trees and sky. Yet to look out, sometimes I see, as I did last Thursday, the symbolic representation of the season arrayed; lifeless, cropped dark skeletons of trees, whitened on their upper reaches as they are mossy on their northern, whiteness moreover on any surface of repose, that light again, and always crows.