There is no denying the obvious. Nature speaks to us and only those oblivious to seasonal transition are not affected. At night, from our backyard under the cover of darkness, we can hear the incessant tiny peeps of migrating songbirds calling to one another, leaving us for warmer climates in anticipation of oncoming winter. During the day, we hear the unmistakable, skyward-distant sounds of geese flapping their formations to the south, drawn by their instinct to survival to leave our northern climate before winter arrives.

The evenings now are cool, and the mornings the same. There's a chill on the air that only a clear sunny day is capable of dissipating. Several days ago we got caught out while on our ravine walk, in a powerful wind-and-rainstorm. We had dallied, talking too long with others we met along the way. It hadn't seemed likely when we had set out that we would encounter rain. We did see what looked like thunderheads far off, however.

I'd taken the precaution of stuffing little Riley's raincoat into one of my pockets, and took along as well a single umbrella, as I'd done on many previous occasions. We'd had many close calls with thunderstorms this year. Some of them amazing; beginning just as we concluded our daily ramble, and had reached our house.

This time the thunder rumbled far off. And after awhile there occurred suddenly a single loud clap nearby, when we'd parted with someone we had chatted long with, deep in conversation. At that point we were almost halfway through our daily circuit. And at that point we decided to double back, to return the way we had come because though at the half-way point, it represented a straighter, less arduous journey back to the ravine ingress on our street.

But the rain beat us out. Despite which, though we put Riley's raincoat on him, we didn't bother unfurling the umbrella because the forest canopy succeeded wonderfully in keeping us dry, but for the occasional large plop that landed on us. It was only when we left the security of the forest and embarked onto the street that the umbrella was lifted, protection achieved in part. Where our bodies met in communion as we paced ourselves down the street to our house we remained dry; the outside portions as we strode along quickly became drenched.

The wind did its malicious best to see to that. And the rain, dropping heavily from a now-darkened sky was more than happy to comply with the urging of the wind. Our brief exposure was all that was required for us to arrive back home, half-dry, half-drenched, and laughing all the way.

Today we've no sun, unlike yesterday when Riley spent most of the day, however cool it was, basking in the sun he so loves. Today he must make do with lying alongside the fireplace in our family room, taking from its flaming heat whatever comfort he can.