We had a welcome, light shower last night before bedtime. And the heat of the previous week appears to have largely dissipated, though the humidity remains, even while it is somewhat lifted by the presence of a brisk breeze.
Our gardens look beyond content. They're thriving, blooming, colourful in their array of tints and shapes. And, stationed momentarily in arrested motion as we regard the micro-scenes of one part or another of the garden, it's hard to move on, our eyes really do remain in arrest mode.
But then, we moved on, up the street the brief time it takes to access our neighbourhood forest and then we descended into the ravine. It remains moist underfoot from the robust rain event of several nights back. We discovered yesterday, during our perambulations on the circuit of trails we usually take that several trees had come down. One had been rather precariously perched on the bank of one of the creek's tributaries, and even though it was alive with foliage, down it came, to be caught between the fork of a larger, older tree. So now it lies across that part of the trail where we have the choice of ducking under the side caught in the tree, or to clamber over the part where it touches the forest floor. A trifle of an impediment.
The sole place where meadow rue grows modestly is just beyond that point. And one of the two plants that we're aware of is sending up its blooms, barely discernible, modest themselves. Red baneberry is turning its bright red, and raspberry canes are beginning to show the berries thriving, even as the thimbleberries are just beginning their bloom.
We heard not a bird, saw no squirrels, nor any butterflies or bees. No presence of other hikers, let alone their companion dogs. Still and silent.
Nature, resting from her prodigious labours.
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