Fall has arrived in our woodland ravine. Queen Anne's lace, yarrow, fleabane and the occasional buttercup are still seen, but the fall-ubiquitous asters are crowding them all out, with their less-seen companions goldenrod. The wild apple trees are full of ripening apples, dropping the colourfully ripe ones on the forest floor where they becomingly glint back bright red as shafts of sunlight illuminate them on early afternoon strolls.

They're irresistible to my husband, who invariably goes off trail, to rummage about in the undergrowth and come back triumphant, a pair of ripe-red beauties in hand. He extends both to me to take first choice, and I take possession of one, and bite in. Not all the fruit of all the wild apple trees are so edible, but this particular tree that he favours bears crisply-moist sweet apples and we enjoy their freshness.

It's clear that, from time to time birds and squirrels peck and nibble away at them as well. The squirrels also take on occasion to taste-testing morsels of fungi that are now appearing on the forest floor, above rotted tree roots. This is the season, aside from spring, when mushrooms tend to pop up in surprising formations and colour variations to delight us as we ramble along.

Already some of the low-growing undergrowth in the very bottom story under the densest of the canopies are beginning their journey back to the underground; their once-bright green foliage has turned suddenly yellow and they're beginning to dry, preparing for resorption. The summer that seemed to stretch beckoningly toward us just a few short months ago, is coming to a close.

Daylight hours are much, much shorter; we've lost two and a half hours in the last several months of summer, and the difference is notable. We note it with regret, and we know that the fewer daylight hours are already impacting the environment.