Sic Transit Gloria

We had heavy rain this morning, after breakfast, just as we would ordinarily be preparing to go out on our daily ravine walk. Our routine for the day had been considered; our walk first, then drop by the voting station to do our civic duty, after which we'd take a drive downtown to go by the stained glass store so Irving could get the thin lead he needs for these new window sets and a better green for the leaves he'll be cutting.

The rain, we thought, would spoil all that. I looked at our email to see if there'd been a response from our insurance; an automatic response was what we had, reminding that the telephone was the first order in placing a claim. And as it happened, while he was on the telephone, doing all that explaining, that the rain, heavy enough to convince us this would go on all day, just suddenly stopped. And there, above, were spaces of blue between the dark clouds.

So it was on with the dogs' harnesses and collars, and off we went. It had turned very windy. Obvious that the unseasonably warm weather we've been basking in was about to converge with another system that would bring us the inevitable return of fall. In the meanwhile, the air smelled wonderful, no longer redolent of the heavy odour of freshly manured farm fields that had greeted us yesterday, for which we still gave thanks since it translates to preparation for next year's crops.

The tall screen of trees heralding the entrance to the ravine gave ample promise of what we'd find within. Even in the space of one day so much changes within the perimeters of the ravine, with all of its deciduous trees and shrubs, alongside those winter-favoured evergreens. And what a sight it was, to see the wind lifting leaves from their high perches, denuding tree branches and in the process rattling and rustling the canopy above.

It resembled a snowy day, in the copious amounts of leaves detaching from branches above, drifting down in such great numbers, in colours of gold, red, green and orange. Underfoot we rustled through a rainbow of high-drifted leaves, droplets glistening back at us from the morning's rain. We felt such incredible exhilaration at the fury of the wind's rushing through the tree tops, the release of the leaves, the kaleidoscope of dazzling colours.

I had brought with us our digital camera on yesterday's ravine walk. Taken more than enough photographs. But the landscape today was infinitely more glorious, heady, inspiring us to wonder whether this was a unique experience; surely this has never happened before in quite the same way? The colour-surround, the whipping wind, the freshness of the atmosphere, the feeling of utter release.

Are our memories so poorly equipped that we cannot thrust back through the years' exposure to these very same landscapes, year after year as nature prepares her seasonal introductions? I muse that this is precisely why we take pictures, so we can recall when memory fails. And all those photographs of years past, that we've posted to our computer's memory. What happens when we're no longer here, who will value those assists to our memory?