Antartica penguins

They are the owners of the place; us intruders look on, while global warming melts the blue ice into the quiet waters in the wind.  It is cold, the skin folds into itself. Only the eyes, the eyes.

One walks into the moon like rocks.  Not a shrub around, some remnants of sea weed speak of some green, some red brown, some yellow ochre.  And the birds flying and then back to hatch the white eggs inside crevasses.  The inadequate shoes sink into the snow and mold the muddy roads.  And us, the intruders, come close together in this sensation of