Tuesday: clockwise: which incidentally left the best for almost last. It was sunny and bright, and the people of the lake seemed bright, too. Lots of American widgeons paddling in the middle of the lake – I used to see them primarily on the south end – a NY Times story yesterday said ducks of the Mississippi River highway were migrating late this year –- global warming on the wing -– and, applying the same trend to Socal, it seemed there should have been some scaup and ring-necked ducks about this time of year. (Though I did see a couple of ring-necks at MacArthur Park Lake about a month ago, during the tamale festival.)

Which is not to say the water fowl were not present in abundance. Lots of year-rounders, of course, including the goose with the broken wings that always stick out at his sides, and the Ross’s goose, as well as the muscovy pair, lots of border-collie-looking hybrids, black and white speckled, and many geese. I saw a heron bring its large body in for a landing on the marsh islands. Cormorants are here. And of course the many bands of coots, who did their weird barky squawking-begging when I lingered near the bank.

I hadn’t walked leisurely at the lake in a while, and it was like returning to a school where you’ve already graduated, to find the same teachers and many of the same students, still in place. And new ones who have made themselves at home and own the place as much as you ever did. At the far south end, one man fished. High school kids poured out of a yellow bus and ran or walked or sat – counterclockwise around the lake: apparently, they hadn’t heard about getting no exercise.

At the lotus bed, the dead fronds haven’t been grappled out of the water. Not enough of them to bother this year, perhaps. My dog lunged at some of the many many geese near the isthmus, as I like to call it. Then she had to be protected from the geese, who did not take her seriously. She’s a herder not a killer. (Yeah, Andrew the mailman might not think that was the funniest thing he ever heard.) As I passed the island, I noticed the gate was open, but it did not occur to me that the island was open-open…until a parks employee whom I had never seen said, “Do you want to go on the island?” He said his boss must have forgotten to close the gate. “Go ahead.” He said they didn’t like people on the island because they take the ducks’ eggs. Presumably there weren’t many nests at this time of year. Rosie the dog and I crossed the bridge. The only other time I have done so was when they were still opening it for the Lotus Festival. Yes, I said to myself, I am on an island. Funny I never thought that in New York. I was not alone. There was a homeless-looking man sitting quietly on the bank, facing Glendale Blvd. He had a homeless-looking dog, on a rope that the dog trailed as he walked freely on the island. The dog didn’t bother the birds, though. After a while, I went back on the bridge. A young man with headphones jogged past me, jogged onto the island, did a half circle of it and jogged back over the bridge.

Then: Leisure time was running out, or so I felt, so I picked up the pace and headed back.