There's a kind of justice in being a penguin.
While we smile at their waddle,
those of us who are men,
might think on the endless dark, 
the -65 degree cold, 
and the 112 mph storm winds 
of the Antarctic winter,
when the Emperor males can't move, can't eat for nine weeks
(burning even the fat in their eyelids),
so that the egg below their belly feathers, 
perched on their feet,
can be born in the spring
to feast on summer's bounty
(becoming the king of all penguins),
while the females fly through polar seas, 
fattening themselves on fish, squid, and krill
chortling with all the other mothers.


						Brandywine
						2/20/97