Duck named Pete

The duck is in the pond! I've named him Silvester, but my boyfriend think he's more like a Pete. The grass is slightly longer and there is a stick in the pond that could be mistaken for a snake. All else seems unchanged. Right before dark, the pond reflects a building on campus. A red structure is a blurry ghost on the surface of the water. Ryan, my boyfriend, says, "Give me the camera--I am going to capture nature," as though we were trapping a lightning bug in a jar. He snaps some pictures of the birds hopping around. Earlier he was convinced that one was staring at him. I am reminded of the day he said, You want to be a bird don't you, and think to myself yes. Perhaps I am another version of that bird exploring the weekend's buildup of whiskers on his face: cheeks covered in red and brown. The duck lets out a sharp quack! after I am done chasing his image in circles as he swims. He dips his head underwater, nuzzling. As he moves, the water follows in a triangular path like the shape of his tail feathers. C'mon, it's you and me, Pete, do something," Ryan says, wishing for a spectacle. When the duck moves, he says, See, told you his name was Pete, insinuating that he's got the correct name for the duck. Kids riding bikes break the silence and run towards the duck in exitement that is excrutiating to my ears. I notice that they have means to harass and control poor Pete. A girl calls it ducky, and wants to jump in after it. She then asks why small ducks are yellow, but she's thinking of baby chics. Always a need to call an animal our own, to disturb the one that travels alone peacefully among its own triangle. Always a need to name an animal to identify a spec of commonality and communicate.