The World Without Us
The sound of laughter burst through the open window from the duck pond outside, piercing the afternoon stillness.
QUACK-quack-quack-quack-quack-quack.
It was like some Borsht-belt comedian, a Shecky Greene or Red Skelton, launching into another sold-out performance, cracking up over his own material.
So a guy walks into a bar.
QUACK-quack-quack-quack-quack-quack.
I walked onto the back porch of my wife’s second-floor condo in San Mateo, Calif. for a front-row seat.
For years, I have relished this man-made pond and its natural waterfowl, with its resident mallards squabbling for territory, drakes chasing hens, both upending in place to feed on the bottom vegetation, sticking their little duck butts into the air, like kids at the shallow end of the pool.
I’ve watched squadrons of geese swoop in with elegant military precision to take their place here as Top Birds, ignoring the dabbling ducks as the rich do their servants.
On summer days, I’ve spotted turtles sunning themselves on small rocks and squirrels scamper to the water’s edge, those nervous beachgoers.
I love this place.
But no more so than right now.
The coronavirus has sent humankind sheltering indoors to wait out the contagion.
But Mother Nature has done no such thing.
She has not hit the pause button.
The world goes on without us.
And if my little community pond is any indication, wild creatures are relishing this manmade time-out.
The pandemic has shut down industry and slashed air pollution levels worldwide. You can even detect the change in satellite imagery from space.
For now, Chinese factories no longer belch their toxins, polluting automobiles are left in their garages. The sudden drop in emissions from cars, trucks, airplanes and smokestacks has few modern precedents.
Animals are taking advantage of the fresh air and relative quiet.
The other day, a lone coyote was seen prowling a deserted main drag in Chicago’s once-crowded downtown Loop, like deer and other animals that now roam the site of the long-abandoned Chernobyl nuclear power plant.
Taking over. Moving in. Sensing opportunity.
As I walk past, the ducks now cock their heads to consider me with a single discerning eye, as though I were a trespasser.
They seem to be saying, “What are you doing here?”
This condominium complex, known as Woodlake, is a decades-old suburban refuge.
In the early 1920s, the area was part of the grounds of Pacific Studios, which made several silent films before being driven out of business by the advent of the “talkies.”
The producers didn’t think to soundproof the sets, which were too often disturbed by the pounding racket of passing trains on the nearby Southern Pacific Railroad line.
From 1922 until the late 1960s the grounds, located just west of the present 101 freeway, served as the site of a community college.
That’s when the pond was dug and trees were planted. Today, the trees are mature, their shade and grace lending the area an old-growth charm.
In 1968, the campus was converted into condominiums, popular among the swinging mini-skirted flight attendants who worked the planes that passed through nearby San Francisco International Airport.
A half-century later, many of those women still live here, gray-haired now, their in-flight days long behind them, those short dresses replaced by canes and walkers.
We live away from the central fountain, near the small meditation island that’s connected to the main grounds via a small arched Japanese bridge and filled with cherry trees, which are now in blossom.
But I have seen the action.
Perched on benches that surround the pond, the old women gossip, dogs and their grocery bags by their side.
They feed the ducks, ignoring the signs.
Especially in the spring, when the hens parade their recently-hatched broods and everybody is hungry.
These ducks are residents here, just like we are.
Recently, a gaggle of adolescents took to waddling over to the nearby Starbucks, panhandling for crumbs, making eye-contact with everyone who comes and goes.
But I have often wondered: Where do the ducks go at night?
Sometimes, I’ve gone looking for them, but the water is dark and still, and silent.
I’ve even asked my neighbors, and nobody seems to know.
The next morning they’re back, on colder days taking naps with their heads tucked into their downy feathers. They sit by the waterside, lined up, still as statues, and I’ve tried to approach, just to be in their presence.
I slink up slowly but the sentry always spots me. One by one, they slink into the water, with a yap that seems to say, “Take a walk, pal.”
In the spring and fall, during the seasonal migration, the bigger birds use our little pond for a freeway rest stop.
You can hear the sociable honking of the geese in the moments before they arrive, gliding onto the water in perfect formation, the ducks giving way.
For days, the geese congregate under the trees on the far side of the pond, eyeing the mallards, community lines drawn.
Days later, they line up, flap their wings to gain momentum, and leap into the sky, noisily fly away, en route to points north or south.
Then the ducks resume their places, and the old women toss their bread crumbs.
I have been here, in my front-row seat, for nearly a month now, and my senses have become attuned to this place.
For now, I have left behind the blood-red sunsets of the high-desert, where I have endured Venetian summer heat and marveled at how the fading light at dusk brings a perfect clarity unmatched at noon.
Back in my suburban Vegas community, there are not ducks but partridges, cooing, flitting about my yard like roadrunners, always a few steps ahead.
They will be there, I hope, waiting for me, when I eventually go home.
But for now, I monitor the mallards.
Laughing at their jokes.
Wait, I hear another outburst, another extended cackle, a cue to the start of another performance.
The birds are all taking their seats.
The old women are gone, for now.
Yeah, the world will do just fine without us.
Did you hear the one about how humans vanished and Mother Nature couldn't care less?
QUACK-quack-quack-quack-quack-quack.
