Final Place: Nighttime at the Pond

5:30 p.m. Thursday, Dec. 3

It’s cold, about 40 degrees, and dark. I’ve never visited the pond before during the evening, although it may as well be nighttime. If I weren’t surrounded by nearby buildings and streets, it would be pitch black. Somehow, I think I prefer night to day. Because I cannot see well, I imagine that the ducks, birds and squirrels will not notice me in return. Of course, I know this isn’t the case. Animals have a much better sense of smell and hearing than I.

I scribble in my notebook to the illumination of street and sidewalk lamps, whose white light shimmers off the pond’s calm ripples. Even the water appears black. A single male mallard paddles slowly and steadily in no set direction, creating a few ripples of its own. Although I cannot differentiate much between his feather colors, I know he’s a male because of the dark head and lighter body.

There is no female that I can see, unless she hides in shadows. There are also no critters or birds scurrying and fluttering about. It appears that Mr. Mallard and I are alone. I wonder if he has chosen a mate for the season. During this time of year, mallards usually come in pairs in preparation for mating season. Watching him here, alone, in the dark, makes me pity him. I want the duck to have a mate, at least some sort of company other than myself. I wonder if he feels lonely, the way I do right now situated away from all the hustle and bustle of students going to and from campus events. Since tonight marks the 140th anniversary of Chatham University, more students, faculty and other people wander about than usual. From a distance, I hear them talking amongst themselves. Their voices ride a gentle breeze in my direction and blend with the sound of an airplane flying overhead, car motors rumbling down the street, and the continuous splat splat of water spurting from the pond’s fountain onto its concrete disc base. Occasionally, the mallard quacks, a noise completely inharmonious with its surroundings, which is sad. Aside from people, he creates the only other natural sound. It should be the manmade airplane, vehicles and fountain that seem out of place.

Sounds come alive in the dark. I suppose it’s because at night I rely more on hearing than vision. I hear everything that goes on around me, whereas during the day I hear less—or at least register less—because I’m preoccupied by seeing what lies in front of me. At this moment, though, I see more than passersby do walking from the campus chapel to Mellon board room. None venture in the pond’s direction. Instead they remain on pathways leading directly from one warm, lit building to another. For now—and I expect for the rest of the night—the mallard will have the pond to himself until he flies away to wherever he nests.