The birds have returned to Kitsilano Pool, taking station until next spring. In autumn, more than any other season, low clouds cling to the North Shore mountains like veils. The mush of decaying leaves, the increasingly sodden earth, and the dim light of afternoon seem far removed from the seaside frolic of summer.
Some leaves have not yet turned, yet I am already dreaming of cherry blossoms. On an especially wet ride down 7th Avenue, between Cypress and Maple, I found solace in the clear memory of pedaled hanami. This alone is enough to lighten my spirits in January, but the buds seem impossibly far away in November.