I take a seat at a corner table facing the window. A blustery spring day. The mutter of cars and buses as they pull up to the stop sign.
Western Avenue, once the city limit back when little farms lay between St. Paul and the milling city of Minneapolis.
Last Friday the rain slowly crept its way into our autumn. Even though the street sweepers have made their rounds, out my front window the sign telling us not to park there is stuck in a ground littered with even more leaves than when it was first staked. Rain is knocking leaves from the trees faster than the turning calendar. That means it is time to get out and see the town before the season turns.