A Pacific Rookery

There is the place where penguins choose to meet and mate

and hatch their eggs and raise their young of late.

It’s a nice place, a Pacific rookery with a splendid ocean view.

It’s not dry, but for a penguin, it’s the best place for their young to debut.

Here, the rollers surge in, big and tall, and endless ‒ at a steady pace,

From far out to sea they come, and through the open water

they sweep in with such elegance and grace,

then swell up to curl high and after that,

boom and thunder, rumble and roar.

To get home . . . facing this is what’s in store.

The rollers crash and break into foam, then fizz and froth and smash into wild spray

that gets caught by the stiff and bitter wind, spraying everything with wet and salt.

There’s no place to hide, and there’s no room for the faint of heart

or thin-skinned and yellow . . . this is where to get home,

you have to leap and vault . . . and solo.

And like most things nice in life, there’s a catch, and a plan

Remember, only the brave leave the water to get on land . . .

Timing is everything my feathered friend, have heart

Catch a roller coming in . . . get a running start

Let it lift you higher and higher . . . close your eyes

To hesitate is to die . . . go,

Banzai!

This you’ve got to do . . . there is no prize, just life, now rise

Take a leap of faith and rise some more . . . soar!

And then one more giant leap . . . now you’re home, ashore.