The penguins live in huts on a small hill of mud and stone above a pond. The pond is fenced off for now, so there is nothing to do but mate or prepare to mate or watch others mate.
One penguin walks with a load of straw from a hut down near the water to a hut near the rocks at the top, and then turns to start again. I cannot tell whether this is robbery or a change of address. There is nothing furtive about the penguin, no looking over its shoulder, and the other penguins do nothing to stop it and nothing to help.
I go on and watch sea lions wrestle, but then I notice large birds swooping towards the penguins, so I go back.
A gang of gray herons, local toughs twice the height of the penguins and armed with long sharp bills, are strutting through the penguin village. They stick their bills into huts and pull out silver fish. They poke at penguins that stand in doorways. The penguins can do nothing. They form a row as if ordered to do so.
But one penguin walks with a load of straw from a hut down near the water to a hut near the rocks at the top, and then turns to start again.