Attack of the Squirrels

I walked up to Pete, who was nestled in the grass. He was scared and jumped in the pond. His bright, crayola orange feet rose from beneath him; his mouth opened in a constant quack; his black tail waddled into the water, and a black poof was exuded from his tail after he jumped in. Hmm, wonder what that was. After getting so close, I notice that the back of his head gleams a shellac of teal feathers. I decided it was time to research some duck info. Pete is a Mallard duck, specifically a Drake, which is a brightly colored male duck, just as I have described. The female is known as the hen, and is brown in color. No hen here; poor Pete. Black poof is still a mystery. I'm sitting on the lone bench next to the tree, today, and a grayish-brown squirrel skitters around me; he stops, and his right black eye glares at me, but then he quickly runs past. I have to admit I was a little bit scared, but it seems that these animals reciprocate the fear. I feel like I am invading their space, but isn't it mine as well? There is a pile of sticks in front of me as though someone wanted to clean up, or build a fire-pit, which I'm sure is not permitted here. There is name-tag litter by the pile of sticks, how ironic. If I could identify each person who littered, I would make them pick up after themselves; I could change the world in that motherly role. I'll leave the name anonymous for the sake of blogging. One squirrel scampers up the tree, stops, stares at me, and I can see his nose wiggle, his stomach pant. I can't be sure if it is the same one, or if it is even a boy. I'm beginning to see how the patriarchy of the English language has shaped my writing. I need to stop turning to "him." Pete has tucked his body into the grass again where no one will bother "him." I am suddenly surrounded by squirrels; three grays chase the black one in circles in a game of territorial tag. Maybe it is time to go.