We left the house before breakfast as has become our usual-new deep summer routine of late, leaving behind us a thirsty garden where it was more than evident that a little bit of water would be appreciated. Feeling just a twinge of guilt, we carried on, up the street, into the ravine and down into the forest with Jackie and Jillie.

As we neared a stand of thistles at the top of the hill, there was a flurry of activity that just couldn't be ignored. At the very bottom of that hill, three-quarters of the way up a venerable old pine, we long ago noticed a wild bee hive with bees coming and going constantly; obviously a thriving colony. So the bees don't have far to go for pollen they swiftly return with to the industrious little hive of frenetic action.

Bees everywhere, it seems, are struggling against incursions into what was once their territory, with the effects of pesticides, and wild bees facing competition from imported honey bees, not native to Canada, but which have long been introduced for commercial honey-production purposes. These bees, representing a minute portion of the hundreds of different varieties that exist in the wild in Canada alone, likely have no near competition, so we can hope they'll manage to survive.

One imagines they don't mind at all flying about and performing their assigned duties, despite the heat and high humidify -- but who knows, really? They don't have far to go for water, since the creek meanders its way through the forest just behind the tree that is their home.

What a time it is in the forest! There's a wild crabapple tree that has formed its tiny apples, quite a bit ahead of the wild apple tree production; very colourful and vibrant. The colour of the tiny crabapples not entirely dissimilar to the bright red of the Staghorn sumac candles now matured and decorating all the sumacs. From looking up toward the sky, to glancing down at the forest floor, and there we see dog strangling vine creeping over all the vegetation it shares space with, aggressively claiming more than its share.

Here and there, appears a tangle of cowvetch among the yarrow and Queen Anne's lace and the goldenrod and asters approaching maturity, but not quite prepared yet to bloom. In the place alongside one of the forest trails where jewelweed has found an accommodating environment because it tends to be very wet for a prolonged period of time in spring, it has colonized a fairly wide swath, and we've been on the lookout for the appearance of the orchid-like flowers.

Yesterday we were rewarded with the blushing sight of one sole flower in the wide sea of jewelweed vegetation, and likely there won't be too many of the delicate bright blooms whose exquisite presence explains its name.

The compass plants that we also know as Pilotweed and which have grown their presence throughout the forest are now fully mature and blooming well, their bright yellow heads a lovely counterpart to the ambient green of the forest.

On our return home we promised the garden we'd be back out to water if no rain fell within the following few hours. And then -- the expected-unexpected, rain fell, almost like a mist, then a penetrating drizzle, and finally along came a downpour. We could almost hear the garden sigh with deep relief. Or, on the other hand, that could have been me.

Gorgeous, hugely luscious Hibiscus blooms in the garden!