The Soiree

Tiny ice crystals came in with every sip of oxygen.  By the time the lungs had tamed the air from piercing stabs to sharp tingles, the breath escaped back into the night air.  Breathing is a continual process, but in this case there was nothing automatic about it.  Each inhale was a conscious choice and each exhale a reluctant gasp.  We were dressed in our finest making our way in a shuffle dance across the frozen landscape.  Many wore black tails signifying the most formal of affairs; however, the waddle steps belied any sort of somberness.  The waddling was not due to hot spiced rum (although I’m guessing no-one would have turned down a mug if offered), but rather the dance was another manifestation of the arctic conditions.  We were trying to walk without having our limbs touch the outer layers which had frozen stiff into icy shackles.  Some people call this soiree a march, but I prefer to call it a parade.  You can’t beat the exhilarating adventure that is the life of a penguin!

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