I looked out my office window yesterday and saw it was snowing.Thankfully not the wet kind of snow - yet. It was snowing leaves from the honey locust trees in the park next door, creating a carpet of yellow in my yard, in the park, on my garage roof, everywhere. That carpet marks the opening bars of the third and final movement of the Weston tree symphony I’ve been watching since March. 

In early spring, I gravitated to the towering willow - larger than any I’ve ever seen - around the corner on Queenslea to enjoy the nakedness of the tree and to catch a glimpse of a red-tailed hawk I often spotted high above me, ready to swoop down on prey, vulnerable because of the leaflessness of the terrain below . It created a sobering and dangerous mood, reminiscent of those great orchestral works by Russian masters of the early 20th century, with passages spare and haunting that transport listeners to bleak landscapes. I didn’t realize it then, but I was about to pay attention to the seasonal symphony for the first time. Thanks COVID. 

Soon I altered my daily walks to catch the magnolia on Church Street as she opened her blooms towards the spring sun. Although grand in size, her pale pink and white blossoms reminded me of the piccolo, all flash and short-lived, overlaying the more serious rich harmonies developing as trees leafed out all around her. No-one - not even the most oblivious to the natural world - could miss the magnolia’s bright show and then the mess as her petals fell just days later.  Her bright melody was fleeting and not developed fully by the great composer of this symphony, Mother Nature. 

Days later, the stately catalpa on Cypress erupted into white bloom.  I had to switch my route again to enjoy it. Also a treble instrument designed to get attention, the catalpa is more of a trumpet - there’s more complexity to her - the flowers stay longer and create less mess. I marvelled at this addition to the symphonic landscape.  

By then, my own three fruit trees - sweet cherry, sour cherry, and apple - were also brightly flowering along with my stunning Oregon grape holly, the shrub that has taken on tree-like proportions because I am reluctant to rein it in. They function as a string quartet just for my own enjoyment, against the backdrop of the full orchestra of trees in the park next door. 

By summer, nature was developing the themes she’d previously introduced. The trees were in green-growth mode, no more flowers, leaving that to the shrubs, annuals, and garden perennials. Their canopy sheltered me from the strength of the summer sun as I continued my walks in the neighbourhood or sat reading or writing in my backyard. A quiet unobtrusive second movement of the symphony, often called “the slow movement”, is a breather for the players as they gain energy for the big smasher finale.  

The fruit, of course, is the exception to the quietness of the tree summer. Indeed, my own sour cherries were a bumper crop this year, and because their taste does not appeal to the squirrels and birds, they were all for me. This was in contrast to the sweet cherries which disappeared long before I even saw them ready. Apples too were prolific this year and I shared my crop with the squirrels who have a bad habit of leaving immature apples missing single bites all over my yard and along the fences. 

The neighbourhood mulberry tree, though, became my summer fixation. No walk was complete without snacking on a few delectable fruits from the branches that drape over the owner’s fence, a stolen melody produced by a quiet unobtrusive instrument, perhaps the viola.  The tree was loaded and I felt no shame walking down the street with the tell-tale stains on my fingers, grateful for Mother Nature including taste in what is primarily her visual work of art. 

Other senses engage too as the birds migrate back through Toronto. I stood under one of the thickest trees this week with what sounded like hundreds of birds settled overhead, invisible because of the leaves but making the whole canopy vibrate with their twitterings, sharing who knows what travel advice to their fellow fliers.  Those birds are not part of this orchestra, but they are welcome nonetheless.

With this week’s yellow carpet, I anticipate the range of colour that will soon overwhelm the streets in the last movement of this months’ long work. In particular, I am eager to see how red the leaves will be this year on my favourite juvenile maple on Langside; to hear kids shriek with delight as they jump into the leaf piles their parents have just raked up; and to watch my dogs as they probe the rich smells of those fallen leaves as they get blown in the streets. 

I’ve lived in Weston now 10 years and have felt welcomed by its human community but this year I have realized it’s also a community of trees. Like the players in an orchestra, the sum is greater than the parts and those parts are always in flux. Each year brings some losses and some gains. I lament those trees that are no longer: the giant maple lost in a storm, the willow that fell over without warning, the tree that was cut down in chunks by a team of neighbours, the opposite of a barn-raising. I cheer for the volunteer cedar seedlings in my yard that I’ve transplanted to form a row along my property line. I rejoice at the “garbage” tree thriving as it soars high above my house now, despite growing through a chainlink fence. I monitor the growth of young trees planted in Pelmo Park that will one day create a canopy over the walkway.  

Thanksgiving just provides so much for which to be thankful.