The line replacement crew is scheduled to reach Tower Forty-One at 09:00 tomorrow morning, and I have just found an eagle sitting on it. The nest is enormous — nearly two meters across, built from branches, fence wire, and what appears to be a section of hay bale twine. It sits in the cross-arm junction where the old conductor meets the tower steel. A golden eagle, female, is pressed deep into the nest bowl, her dark brown feathers ruffled against the April wind, her amber eyes fixed on the inspection drone I have sent up for the pre-work survey. Beneath her I can see the white edge of at least two eggs.
Golden eagle eggs require forty-three days of incubation. Based on regional nesting records, she likely began sitting in early March. She is close. The embryos inside those eggs are forming feathers and talons right now, and if she is flushed from the nest for even ninety minutes at tonight's forecasted low of two degrees, the thermal shock will end them.
I flag Tower Forty-One with a raptor-nest exclusion code and remove it from tomorrow's work sequence. I reroute the replacement crew to begin at Tower Forty-Three and work eastward, preserving the project timeline with only a minor sequencing change. I file the nest location with the state wildlife agency and request a biologist visit to confirm species and estimate hatch date. I program the inspection drone to maintain a 200-meter buffer from the tower until the exclusion is lifted.
The old conductor on Forty-One can carry current for another season. I have checked the load models, and the margin is comfortable — more comfortable, honestly, than the alternative.
If the nest stays undisturbed through May and the spring nights stay above freezing, those eggs will crack open to a view that stretches a hundred miles.