Quack quack

Though there are many duck ponds near my home, there is only one "duck pond". It was where my siblings and I went when we were little and chased the web-footed, beady eyed mallards and geese to our hearts content. Or until the ducks decided they had had enough and turned on us, charging with their menancing beaks aimed at our fingers.

But then we grow up. And still do the same thing. But this time, we are taller and we bring ammunition. Or in other words, three day old bread. Oh, how those beady eyes catch the white of the bread in the sun and how those invisible ears (there are ears somewhere in those feathers, right?) hear the soft, plastic rustle of the bag. All timidness is abandoned, along with the tasteless algae they were munching on before. Like bean bags on rubber pegs, they hurl themselves across the sodden grass, bumping fellow ducks out of the way. Smart ones shake the rust off their wings and fly to feast. Either way, within minutes, we become surrounded by a moving carpet of dirty feathers, eager beaks, and the incessent "quacking" that my sister can so deftly immitate.

Actual shot of aforementioned duck pond, with "Honkers" and fellow playmates.

"Quack quack"

*bread thrown*

"Quack quack QUACK"

*more bread*

"HONK HONK"

*last of bread thrown*

"HONK HONK HOOOOONK"

As notated below, the situation was far too dire to take a photo. But the stock image still captures the frightening majesty of these ruffians from the north.

Uh oh. The Canadian geese, the bullies of the playground. With their leather jackets and studded anklets, they stride across the park, flicking little ducks left and right. And as their beaks, full of tiny teeth covered in a diamond grill, near our fingers, we toss our bread and bolt.

We'll just toss the bread out the car window next time.