The air spins its chosen partner, a bright orange leaf, in their last dance before winter ice snatches her colors away. Splotches of sunshine peek through the branches intertwined above. Autumn dissolves in showers of reds, greens, oranges, and yellows only to become a sea of brown and grey. Here in Rivermouth, winter is cruel. 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. Sometimes I wonder what that says about me.