We had a day of interesting weather extremes yesterday, just to enliven things. And it did. When we set out in the early morning the atmosphere, given the rain of the night before, was humid and mist-filled, with a light fog slowly lifting. We knew we'd have a mixed-day of sun and chances of more rain, and it seemed reasonable to get out early onto the forest trails since for the most part the chance of thunderstorms occurring would be in the afternoon. In the morning just light rain showers.

So, off we went, Jackie and Jillie willing and eager as usual. These days, before we descend into the ravine from street level, we're greeted by a proliferating presence of Himalayan orchids. Once they enter a landscape, they develop quite quickly, and they seem to have colonized the right-hand side of the trail, leaving the left side to pilotweed, raspberries and thimbleberries. Though to be more accurate, there are also thimbleberries on the right, alongside Queen Anne's lace, plus the later addition of the colonizing orchids.

So there's ample light to greet us as we approach the forest, along with the bright pink and yellow heads of the flowering plants. As we walk on to meet the forest it closes in on either side and the interior looks obviously darker, with a twilight hue as compared to being outside the forest. But yesterday morning the interior looked dark, really dark. Little wonder, with the dark clouds overhead, a brisk wind moving them quickly along.

There wasn't much light to gleam through the forest canopy, so it was uncharacteristically darker than normal. Which brought thoughts of impending rain to us.

As we hiked along the trails coming across the occasional bright head of a sunflower, the shy, tiny blooms of jewelweed, the darkness began to lift, and soon surprisingly, we could see through the forest canopy that blue sky was emerging, and with it rays of sunshine began penetrating here and here to ground level.

Jackie and Jillie were enthusiastic about barking greetings to other dogs long before we became aware that anyone else besides ourselves was on the trails. But these hot summer days others beside ourselves have taken to changing their habits, setting out in the morning hours while the ambient temperature is still reasonable, to avoid the afternoon sun build-up of heat.

By the time we arrived back home there wasn't a cloud left in the sky. The wide blue bowl of the sky looked like the sea might appear, on a calm day. Even the wind had abated to the point of total absence. The garden was bathed in light, all the plants happily basking in the sun. A humid heat prevailing. The black-eyed Susans in the garden were blooming, just as all the floral spears of the hostas have began receding, the blossoms drying up, the spears crying out to be removed.

An hour later, the wind picked up to the point where it was ferociously blowing everything about, relentless in its fury, auguring a sudden shift in the weather. And sure enough, the clouds had shifted back into view, among them large, purple-bruised ones with ragged edges and accompanying the clouds, the distant roll of thunder. It's both dramatic and comforting, as long as you're safely ensconced within a dwelling, to hear thunder approaching, to see the sky darken until the interior of your home looks like night has swiftly and suddenly invaded. And then, the rain begins, hurling itself against the windows, pinging melodiously.

And the forest and the gardens that had so recently been broiling in the sun, is now cooling off in volumes of rain. What more could they possibly ask for?