by John Yunker I held up my arm in front of a woman coming toward me like an early morning mall walker, in Nikes, purple leggings, a pink Las Vegas T-shirt. She hobbled over potholes and crags, holding an iPad out in front of her with two hands as if it were a dowsing stick. “I don’t see any penguins,” she said as she came closer, as if I were to blame. She sounded Australian. “The nests are up above those rocks,” I said, pointing across the green-and-brown-crusted shoreline,