Eric Davies said the chainsaws were on site and the big trees were coming down. I said I’d meet him right away. Where? Bloor West, at the corner of Pacific. What trees? The old-growth black oak, across from High Park.

In what is surely the Toronto way, Daniels Corp. got permission from the Ontario Municipal Board to cut the big trees down in order to make way for condos.

Never mind that the trees are important for the genetic diversity of the black oak savannah in the park. Never mind that the black oak savannah in the park is a wonder of nature on the continent.

Never mind that this is nesting season.

Eric is studying forestry at the University of Toronto. He is smarter about trees than anybody I know. He looked up as an urban lumberjack lopped off a limb; the spray of sawdust was a pale spume in the air.

He said, “You see the white of the wood? That’s solid. You see the trunk? There’s no rot, it’s solid to the middle.”

Birds flew overhead.

The tree specialist for Daniels Corp. insists that these trees are landscape trees, perhaps 80 years old, not worth preserving at all.

Other specialists, including Eric, insist that these oak are pioneer trees, likely 200 years old, and here before the houses.

Eric said, “I suggested taking a core from one of the trees to count the rings.” That didn’t happen.

He said, “I suggested taking the leaves and comparing the genotype to the trees across the way.” That didn’t happen.

You may guess why not.

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We walked around the site, trying to get a better look at the destruction. The cries of the birds were drowned out by the chainsaws.

I noticed two men in white hard hats standing around. I asked them if I could step inside and get a picture of the fallen trees.

One of the men said, “You need a hard hat and boots.” I said, “My boots are good; lend me your hat.” He said, “You need to be certified.” I said I grew up in northern Ontario; I know about construction sites, and the cutting of trees.

No. No. No.

A man from the neighbourhood walked by and stopped to look. He said, “Well, those old buildings that used to be there, they were in decrepit condition. But this is an extension of the park.”

He’s right.

Eric said, “This is the biggest missed opportunity I’ve seen since I’ve been here. They could have moved a few trees. They could have collected acorns.”

They did not.

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Councillor Doucette?

The man said, “It doesn’t make no difference what you think; the big guys do what they want to do.” He placed his accent for me; Croatia.

He said, “In Croatia, you can’t say what you think. Here, we can say what we think but it doesn’t count.”

He’s right.

A woman named Biljana came by then. She lives in the building just north of the lot with the trees. Her reaction? “I cried. I loved the trees so much. There was a petition; nothing happened.”

I asked if I could look down at the site from her balcony. She took me up and apologized for the mess. Her place was spotless.

Biljana said, “My love for trees is huge. I feel a pain. I can’t breathe.” Alas, her balcony was not positioned for a good shot.

When I went back down, I noticed a woman looking at the scene from a higher balcony. Lynn was just back from the airport. Her bags were still unpacked. She had been studying in England. She said, “I couldn’t believe the trees were gone.”

You get the picture.

Back on the ground Victor, another neighbour said, “It’s no good, the cutting of trees. The trees are alive, like people.”

The saddest thing?

A songbird landed on a nearby wire, with a caterpillar dangling from its beak. Eric said, “See that? Birds tend not to fly with food in their beaks unless they are feeding their young.”

This, of course, is nesting season. The songbird was on its way to feed its young. It was looking for a tree, and for a nest that was no longer there.

The nestlings would have been too young to fly from the chainsaws; dead now, crushed.

There was no study or inventory done of the diversity of bird, animal and insect life in and among those trees.

And the songbird with the caterpillar in its beak flew above the site as if, by flying, its tree and its young would somehow reappear.

There is a sign on hoarding around the site of the condos: “Love Where You Live.”

Yeah, whatever.