The signs are all steadily emerging. There is no evading of reality. Summer, the most fleeting of nature's seasons, is preparing its departure. The unavoidable reality is that we have lost at least an hour of daylight in the past few weeks; dusk descends now at eight in the evening whereas formerly we had light until nine-thirty. The suddenness with which we encounter this loss never fails to take us by surprise.

Last night, while taking our two little dogs out to the backyard before we made our way up to bed for the night, my husband was startled to hear the unmistakable familiarity of warblers flying through the dark night sky, already beginning their southward migration. Its a shock to our sensibilities.

So soon? Already?

But yes, the time has arrived. I've notice of late that the forest floor has begun to subsume a good portion of its green ground cover. And we've seen quite a few bright orange or red leaves littering the trail; well not all that many, but their presence is nonetheless notable. As is the occasional sight of a branch on a tree sporting little red flags of fall.

We're now noticing the occasional colourful fungus on the forest floor where none had been before. Even shelf fungus is beginning to assert itself on old snags.

The trails themselves are becoming overgrown with spent wildflowers. Some of which are stubbornly living on past their allotted bloom time; we see disparate buttercup or daisy flowers among the vanishing Queen Anne's Lace and Yarrow. Soon the milkweed plants will begin to develop their late-season flowering stage.

We're still picking blackberries and thimbleberries, sweet and juicy, but they too will soon be gone. Asters are proliferating everywhere; the proverbial fall flower of the forest.

It's always tough to say goodbye to summer. Fall has its own nostalgic allure, and its wonderfully colourful displays of fall foliage, but it's a time of sweet sadness.