Summer's Waning

August is nearing its end. And with that, the atmosphere is beginning its inexorable change. It's cooling down, we're losing that stifling humidity. Refreshing breezes have picked up. The mosquitoes are almost - not quite yet, but almost - defeated. Skies are a glorious azure, clear and clean; no hovering smog levels to be aware of. The UV levels remain high, but that's all right.

Dipping into the ravine for our daily perambulation, we're comfortable, and Button and Riley engage in their usual peculiar behaviour; standing atop the first hill, as though awaiting our command to descend. We, halfway down the hill, turn back to call them to continue on, to join us on our downward trajectory, into the ravine proper. As though on cue, each begins to descend, to join us, seemingly reluctantly. That'll change as we get further into the ravine.

Riley likes to stand at a higher elevation, to peruse the landscape, as far as he can see, which cannot be all that distant, to ensure that there are none others in the near vicinity, taking liberties with this, his very personal wilderness area. Should someone happen by, they will be challenged, in a sense, vetted by little Riley, before being permitted to continue.

He loves people, but still demands they seek and receive his blessing to use his ravine. As it were. As for Button, she's easy; disinterested to a degree in what other people do, happy to go along at her own speed, doing what she's comfortable with, demanding little of anyone.

In the ravine proper, the trill of cardinals follow us, picked up later by the cooing of doves. Robins scatter on the ground, scratching, searching for some elusive edible treats. They too are aware that the times they are a-changing. They will begin to assemble in family groups, the juveniles rambunctious, the adults cautioning them. They will begin, all too soon, their seasonal migration.

We amble along, desultorily pick ripe blackberries, thimble-berries, pop them into our mouths, recalling other, younger selves when the ripe sweetness blasted our still evolving taste-buds. Red, ripe apples decorate their host trees like glowing ornaments. We select a few fallen apples, ripe and acidic, yet sweetly juicy and inviting to sink teeth into.

Button and Riley politely reject our offers of tiny bits; unappealing to their taste, although Button, when she was very young, used to love bits of apples, and even on occasion picked her own low-growing blueberries. Myriads of small, red-bright dragonflies flit busily about on shafts of sunlight. A grey squirrel rushes hurried diagonally across the trail, inches from our feet; doubtless startled at its rashness.

A wild rabbit, tawny-brown, hops down the trail, stops, then gathers itself again into a trotting hop, doubtless aware of our oncoming presence and that of our little dogs. We are invigorated by the coolness of the temperature, the effect of the soothing breeze. As is Button, forgetting to keep pace with us; instead hurrying along while we're in no mood to quicken our pace.

Riley lags as usual, and we stop from time to time, to encourage him to hurry up a bit. Trouble is, there are odours he must tarry for, and sounds he must investigate, and there is a certain drama to his daily passage through the ravine that must be observed and respected. Button stops occasionally, waiting for me, so she can cadge a few peanuts.

As we approach the usual places where we leave peanuts - tree crotches or the tops of stumps, or holes in trees, the usual suspects reveal themselves, lingering where they know the offerings will be left, anxious to snatch their treats. And we enjoy their antics, and the knowledge that their intelligence informs them of our arrival. We watch a furious little red squirrel in hot pursuit of a black squirrel, four times its size.

The freshness has abandoned the field wildflowers, their colours now muted in a monochromatic landscape of white Queen Anne's lace, white asters and clover, with a spark of gold from the goldenrod insinuated amongst the white. Crickets sound in the long grasses. As we approach one of the exits toward the street level there are Himalayan orchids in bloom.

These are tall, leggy plants with bright pink flower heads, cousins to jewelweed, of the balsam family, like impatiens. They are also invasive pests with their tiny floral offerings on long stalks, proliferating in gardens where incautious gardeners plant them, then rue the day they did.