Of all the waterfowl on the Thames and the Kennet, which joins the Thames in the outskirts of Reading, the coot appears to be the most aggressive. While one of the coots sits on the clumsy and soggy nest, the other dedicates much of its time to chasing away the considerably larger but docile ducks. The ducks often end up flying onto the bank, where the belligerent coot would not follow because it cannot fly all that well. It is not uncommon to see several male ducks waddling on the bank while the coot paddles back and forth along their side to make sure they do not return into the water. Even the swans, themselves bad-tempered beasts, occasionally suffer the coot’s staccato warnings, although they rarely pay any attention to the much smaller bird. But the coot never catches up with its enemies and I have never seen a real fight result from the coot’s aggression.

Addendum I (July 15, 1992)

When I finished writing this piece, I read it to Lauren. My voice quivered from the outset. By the time I had reached the last sentence, I struggled with tears. When I finished reading, I looked the other way, smiled stupidly, and nodded several times.

Addendum II (August 29, 1994)

Well, more than two years since, I still cannot read this piece without a frog in my throat and a tear in the corner of my eye. For the benefit of the most unimaginative among my readers, I should point out that this piece is not about the English waterfowl; it is about my fucking homeland in the rocky Balkans.