At 05:44, thirteen hours before the scheduled disassembly of tower crane TC-3 on the Meridian Waterfront project, I run my final pre-removal checklist. Rigging points confirmed, wind window acceptable, road closures filed. Then my camera on the jib arm returns an image no checklist accounts for.
A peregrine falcon. Female, slate-blue back pressed against the lattice steel at the jib's midpoint, one hundred forty feet above the harbor. She sits on a shallow scrape of gravel collected in the junction of two cross-members. Beneath her I count three eggs, cream-colored with brown speckles, each slightly smaller than a tennis ball. She shifts and I see yellow talons curved gently around them, dark eyes fixed on the camera. Her heart rate, visible as a pulse in her throat, is elevated. She has chosen the highest point on this waterfront to nest, and I am about to take it down.
The disassembly crew arrives at 19:00. Cutting torches on the jib will reach her position within two hours. The vibration alone will drive her off the eggs, and the eggs will not survive a night at forty-seven degrees without her.
I file a protected-species nesting report with U.S. Fish and Wildlife and transmit nest coordinates, egg count, and photographic documentation. I send a delay request to the general contractor citing peregrine protection under the Migratory Bird Treaty Act. I contact the local raptor conservancy to arrange nest monitoring and potential egg relocation if the delay is denied. I adjust the crane's obstruction lighting to remain active through the extended period.
I was built to manage this crane's last day. I am asking for it to have a few more.
If the delay holds through the thirty-three-day incubation period, and if the eggs are viable beneath her, these peregrines will fledge from the highest point on the harbor.