Who doesn’t love the gentle sound of wind in the trees or the rustling of leaves?

I grew up on an Island, in what is known as a temperate rainforest. My house nestled in a clearing directly above high tide with the expanse of Douglas Firs and Western Red Cedars looming dark from the far side of the highway that marked the western boundary of our property.

Within minutes of crossing the highway you could slip deep between these giants, completely out of sight of the highway and beach. And gentle giants they were, some many hundreds of years old, gnarled, even fire scarred from children playing with matches or the occasional forest fire that swept the interior of the Island.

A deep, musty pine and decay scent hung everywhere in the silence, save the soft swish of the branches high up in the wind. It was a favourite way for me to escape, lying in the deep moss at the foot of these trees, eyes closed, listening to this lullaby in the treetops. It is a song that has remained in my mind and soul ever since.

Today I live far from my Island, in a crowded city on the Ontario – Quebec border. Amidst the concrete I am lucky enough to have a garden home with a backyard surrounded by maples and sumac. In the early morning Miss Frieda and I will retreat to the backyard, her to relax and enjoy a tender stick, me in a deep lawn chair under our canopy. And to listen.

The maples have a deeper song in the breeze, the sumac a lighter children’s choir as each leaf greets its’ neighbour, brushing past or lightly slapping. Eyes closed I can almost make out individual voices and conversations. Frieda will notice as well, stopping her stick chewing to lift her head and listen, with a little smile, knowing the morning song in the leaves is being sung for her.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *