Nature's inexorable blueprint is unfolding and all the signs are informing us that we had best bid adieu to summer. These are signs difficult to ignore, lest we should wish to do so. The changes seem so abrupt, we're left feeling as though we've been short-changed, wondering where summer has gone. Only yesterday and the day before and the day before that, we were complaining about the heat and humidity. Now nights are not merely cooling off, they're cold.

There simply appeared to be no intermission, nor gradual introduction between scenes. As though we were part of a hurried process, impatient to get on with the next act. 

Before we know what has happened, some great celestial body has pulled the shades on that great window of the sky blocking the sun and nightfall has arrived. Dark seems so much darker, and certainly far too early in the day. And during the day when we have a clear sky the sun sits now quite differently, its throne has been moved and it's on brighter, seemingly slanted trajectory than ever before, albeit with a somewhat dimmed heat quotient.

Already there are some trees that have been convinced enough that fall is on the cusp of arriving, to oblige by turning their foliage from green to red. More soon to follow. Yes, they will most certainly produce a splendid landscape when all in unison of purpose glow the colours of autumn, but even while we're appreciating the spectacle, a moody sadness falls upon us.

Yesterday was the brightest of bright in the afternoon when we set out for our ravine walk with Jackie and Jillie. This had been a day of cloud and sun, mostly cloudy and cool at 15C, but for the entire length of our hike through the forest trails the sun was out preening on its throne sailing a temporarily clear blue sky, for it had shunted away the clouds and proclaimed dominance over the ocean of blue and the grateful landscape below.

Sunlight glowed brightly in angled tones of bright and brighter, emphatically parting the forest canopy in its sturdy determination to light up as much of the forest floor as it could. And it did, enormously, and for a change we were glad to be walking under the probing fingers of sunlight, a relief from the ambient cold temperature, made even more so by a stern wind.

We saw odd looking white fungi, flat and narrow growing on top of a large old stump, illuminated by the son. And though there aren't many berry clusters left on the baneberry shrubs, there were a few stunningly bright red clumps picked out by the glaring sun, turning the red to orange and yellow as though echoing the sun.

We haven't seen very many Monarch butterflies this summer, but earlier in the day before we left for the ravine, I watched one settling on the zinnias in the garden and attempted to snap it with a photograph but it was too busy flitting from one flower to another. They'll soon be setting out on their long voyage in flight from winter, for succeeding generations to end up in Mexico.

There are a number of places on the forest floor where milkweed thrives, and while we were out on the trails, I was able to capture a few pictures of the lovely little creatures that had alighted on a branch and just sat there, fatigued from the enormous exertion of sojourning toward warmer climes, no doubt.

And then we arrived back home again. My husband had intended to mow the lawn for the first time since he had seeded it weeks ago. The grass seed had taken nicely, and was ready to be cut. But the lawn was still too wet from all the rain that had descended in the last few days, and so it would have to wait for another day.