Indian Summer

We long for it to arrive every fall and generally, it does. Relieving us temporarily of cooler weather, bringing back the sun, and intriguing us with its mysterious ways, allowing vestiges of summer to return all too briefly before nature plunges us back into fall and, inevitably winter.

At some time during the month of October, nature pulls back the inevitable cooling and dimming of our atmosphere. Teasing us with summer day-time temperatures, while still plunging us back into night-time frosts.

The interregnum between the seasonal demarcations is all too brief, but so dearly held we mourn for a second time when it lapses once again into autumn, with its winds, rains, shorter daylight hours, less sun.

And then comes November, the darkest month of all when one can just imagine Demeter frantically searching for her abducted daughter, copious tears of despair falling from her eyes. Finally, falling into mourning with Persephone's absence, fading the flowers on their stalks, the fruit from their vines.

Indian Summer couldn't have arrived at a more auspicious time than Canadian Thanksgiving. We aren't there yet, but the days leading up to it are as fully promising as the few days now behind us, with ample sun, temperatures so mild we can go about sleeveless, and feel completely blessed by nature's capricious little tricks, tempting us to think summer when we know colder weather, shorter days turn the corner.

The air is crisp and redolent of tanic acid, from the fallen leaves. There's the soft rustling of the dessicated leaves when the wind picks them up along the trail. We walk the the ravine trails now through deep drifts of fallen leaves. As we make our way along under the now-shrinking umbrella of foliage, we're anointed by falling leaves and pine needles.

Little Riley is carefree, no longer needing a sweater to shield him from last week's icy winds, and Button plods along, stopping now and again to satisfy the invitation of new smells. We're feeling content and lazy and inordinately comforted by the return of mild weather. There are doves in pairs, their wings whistle-whooshing as they rise from the trail to the trees.

We haven't seen woodpeckers in months, and now they're back, the hairy and the Pileated woodpeckers, neither shy of our presence. We're once again amazed at the size and primitive appearance of the Pileated, clacking its head against the trunk of an old spruce, large splinters scattering. High overhead, the haunting sound of Canada geese on their southward seasonal journey.

It's beautiful beyond imagination to look above and see the deciduous trees turning shades of crimson, orange, copper and mellow yellow, their leaves drifting lazily down around us, colouring the trail like confetti underfoot. A small orange butterfly flits by and soon another butterfly, this time a black Admiral. The change in temperature has been too tempting for them also.

Bees are once again busy in their endless search for pollen, not quite yet prepared to hive up for the coming season. There's scant few flowers for them to settle on, but they find them and land, their dancing feet soon coated yellow. Some trees, like the Hawthornes, the wild apple trees and some of the birch are already bare of leaves; the former two dangling haws and tiny sour apples; the latter their catkins.

We're convinced we'll recall these days during the long winter season, but we don't. Each season surprises us anew as it introduces us to the quick succession leading to another year.