Picking up a short branch that had fallen from one of the pin oaks, I marvelled at the beautifully positioned caps–empty bowls–of the acorns, traced on the inside with delicate gold.
Before heading south after a Thanksgiving weekend with friends in the Muskokas, we had cut over to Dorset on Highway 35 to see the view from the old fire lookout. It was puzzling to see so many acorns lying beneath an oak tree! Where were the squirrels?
On the farm where I grew up, a gigantic oak tree guarded the bend in the river as it headed toward the woods. When my sisters and I went with our mother on an outing to collect autumn leaves, we’d spend some time by a gigantic white oak tree. Its lobes were rounded rather than pointed. Mother made crowns for us by fastening the stem of one oak leaf into the rounded end of another!