Almost every morning I take my 11-month-old daughter on a walk to Lake Merritt, a brackish tidal lagoon feeding into the San Francisco Bay. We linger by the little freshwater pools at the wildlife sanctuary (“America’s First”) to look at the birds. There are countless Canadian geese, a single Toulouse Goose, one hulking Muscovy duck, dozens of mallards, and a few black-crowned night herons standing in predatory stillness at the edges of the pools. I point to the birds one by one, telling my daughter their names. “Duck. Goose. Heron.” She watches from her stroller. I don’t ever know what she’s thinking, or if she’s thinking. But sometimes—sometimes—she says the word
A Baby Considers A Duck
A Baby Considers A Duck
A Baby Considers A Duck
Almost every morning I take my 11-month-old daughter on a walk to Lake Merritt, a brackish tidal lagoon feeding into the San Francisco Bay. We linger by the little freshwater pools at the wildlife sanctuary (“America’s First”) to look at the birds. There are countless Canadian geese, a single Toulouse Goose, one hulking Muscovy duck, dozens of mallards, and a few black-crowned night herons standing in predatory stillness at the edges of the pools. I point to the birds one by one, telling my daughter their names. “Duck. Goose. Heron.” She watches from her stroller. I don’t ever know what she’s thinking, or if she’s thinking. But sometimes—sometimes—she says the word