El Estero Lake, Monterey

There is a park in Monterey called El Estero Lake, a former estuary that has long since been transformed to a placid shallow lake.

There are grassy banks and lovely trees set about the perimeter of the lake, and there is a small tree-covered island.  At the southwest end is a statue of a blue heron behind which an arched circle of water fountains and splashes brightly.  Because the park has attractively mowed lawns, Canada geese -- handsome, stately, old-money birds -- have settled in and add to the bucolic splendor.

Mallard ducks, very fast fliers, streak in from their migration routes and circle the lake looking for a motel for the night; they are the Porsche drivers of the migratory bird population.  They are handsome, sleek, fast.  They carry some of their tail feathers in a rakish curl, and swagger with a bit of the bad boy in their hearts.

There are also a number of motley ducks, interbred beyond imagining and ugly to a point of sin.  These unfortunates live a hardscrabble life swilling pond water, lying about in the underbrush and yelling insults to one in another in rough coarse quacks.  They are the bastards of the avian world, the results of one night stands, hard drinking on Saturday nights on the island.  It's a dark shadowy life, but they know which elderly ladies have bags of bread, which garbage cans overflow first and where the insects and creatures of the mud are swarming.  They survive, they're tough, and because of their suffering they look out for each other, sing the blues at sunset and settle their feathers right down, baby.  Right on down.

Because the geese have size and money on their side, they walk slowly and expect much of the world.  Cars rolling along Del Monte Boulevard in four lanes have no bearing whatsoever on the intention of a gaggle of drowsy geese, which is to cross the boulevard, take a gander at the ocean and have a cool glass of something.  "Oh, I don't know, Harriet, how about we take a stroll over to have us a look at the bay, have a few mouthfuls of sod, maybe see if the flock is up for a game of Hearts."  They will amble along, pigeontoed, swinging their haunches slowly from side to side and peering over there, over here, taking their sweet time getting across a busy road.  Horn blowing has absolutely no effect on them except to irritate them a bit.  They pull out their notebooks and write down a few license numbers, call their lawyers later.  Some of them carry a Wall Street Journal under their wing to read at the beach.

The mudhens, coots as they are called, find low-rent housing where they can find it and work hard to make a living.  Modestly compact in size, they are energetic and busy all day long.  Coots do well, persisting and thriving in Monterey, a destination town where visitors come and go, expecting privilege and lavish care.  Everyone knows:  You need a good stretch of quality mud?  Ask a coot, he'll get it for you.  You need a dozen worms, right now?  Coot'll have here in no time flat.  The coots hustle for deals on bulk food, spread news quickly among themselves when prices go down on insects and look for any lucky break they can.  They make the best of their lot, keep themselves up the best way they know how because they know they have to overcompensate for an embarrassing feature doled out by a bored god:  Huge yellow feet.  Feet that can almost walk on water but which look like five-toed pontoons.  Life is just not fair when it comes to good looking, they say.

Mallards -- just listen sometime -- laugh uproariously when they see the coots' feet.  The industrious mudhens in their dozens dash into the water and swim around maniacally, doing their best to ignore the raucous insults hurled their way.  The geese yawn and blink languidly, gossip with each other and then settle down for naps.  A lady shuffles across the street and eases down on a park bench; out dash all the bastard ducks, surrounding her feet and scrambling for scattered crusts of bread.  Their feathers, loose and unruly anyway, form a small cloud overhead and all around, sifting down to the grass like small rocking boats on the breeze of the afternoon.