Everywhere the cliffs are scarred by penguin claws.They are irrepressible and undaunted by missteps and stumbles.

At the top, red eye, yellow brow and full of spunk, they celebrate their accent and reunion, and are quickly assorted by their ravenous chicks. Now, the earliest biggest the adults. More food is the course running out up and down the shores and cliffs of the forquence.

Migrants who spend their lives gracefully plying hundreds of miles of sea and air feeding at their leisure are now bounce to these frozen shores of rock and sand, Leathered by the course of their young,more food.

It is nightfall in Australia. Rush hour is in force swing. The little red flying foxes are migrating, and parched with thirst. But to drink on the wind is a dangerous undertaking.