In a world they did not warm, penguins fight with what they have. Their droppings 
launch a chemical counterstrike, building clouds that cool the ice they need to live. 
It won’t stop collapse—but it shows nature won’t go quietly.

They waddle through the cold with streaks behind,
Their colonies alive with stench and steam.
Not idle waste—each pile is sharp, designed,
A piece within a larger, grim regime.

Their droppings seep with ammonia-rich fumes,
Invisible but potent in the gale.
It climbs, reacts with sulfur, then resumes
As aerosol—each speck a cooling veil.

These clouds condense where penguins once stood,
A murky shield against the sun’s command.
They thicken skies above the thawing flood
To slow the melt we sparked with our own hand.

The ice still breaks. The oceans still expand.
But nature fights with every grain of sand.