The air spins its chosen partner, a bright orange leaf, in their last dance before  winter ice snatches her colors away. Slots of sunshine peak through the branches intertwined above. Autumn dissolved in showers of reds, greens, oranges, and yellows only to become a sea of brown and grey. Here in Rivermouth, winter is cruel to us. Seizing crackling campfires, he disappoints every year. We only want the gift of his crystalline flakes, but each and every year he skips right over us. I stopped expecting, but most people hope for magic each year. What does that say about me?