Fall in Vancouver, and the goddamn locust trees are dumping their leaves – yes dumping them – to the ground.  The leaves now are getting almost dusty, dry and just so done with it all.  They hurry into the corners and scuttle along the walk way, ready for what’s next.  Mornings are cold but I persist with my Birkenstocks, damn it, knowing soon it will be all Blundstone boots and thick socks.  It will be huddling by the electric heater and throwing on an extra blanket.  It will be thinking about Sunday roasts – a chicken with the fixins roasting slow in the oven while I nurse a chardonnay or shiraz.  The days still hold heat now though.  Even in the mornings, on the way to work as I pause to wonder if he will call today and steel myself for another day on the front-lines, even then, I can tilt my head skyward and feel warmth, and hope, and promise.  My toes are freezing, but my face has felt the sun.  It’s some kind of metaphor, I guess.