The light is flat. The day is dark. The air is heavy, and the sky has lost its color.

Rain and more rain have fallen. Letting up now, but the wind continues.

It moves steadily, persistently across the surface, creating whitecaps and restless waves.

The air carries a constant sound. Low, steady. A fluttering rush over water. No other birds are out today.

Harriett’s platform is steady, unmoved. The nest—built with expertise—holds its shape against the wind.

Harriett remains.
Low in the nest.

The eggs—and her chick—are beneath her, protected from the elements by instinct refined over generations.

Harriett does not require ideal weather.

Her head lifts occasionally. A brief scan. Then down again.

Her mate is somewhere on the river, fishing. Working in uncooperative water.

There are no Homo sapiens out today. No cameras. No notebooks.

Harriett absorbs the weather.

Uncomfortable. Continuous. Necessary.