Ronald Wallace

Australia. Phillip Island. The Tasman Sea. Dusk. The craggy coastline at low tide in fog. Two thousand tourists milling in the stands as one by one, and then in groups, the fairy penguins mass up on the sand like so much sea wrack and debris. And then, as on command, the improbable parade begins: all day they've been out fishing for their chicks, and now, somehow, they find them squawking in their burrows in the dunes, one by one, two by two, such comical solemnity, as wobbling by they catch our eager eyes until we're squawking, too, in English, French, and Japanese, Yiddish and Swahili, like some happy wedding party brought to tears by whatever in the ceremony repairs the rifts between us. The rain stops. The fog lifts. Stars. And we go home, less hungry, satisfied, to friends and family, regurgitating all we've heard and seen.