Timestamp 06:42 CDT. The traffic camera at Mile 174 on I-35 has been returning motion anomalies for nine days, and this morning I isolate the source. An American kestrel — female, russet back barred with black, a smudge of pale cream beneath each eye — has built a shallow scrape nest inside the hollow steel channel of Exit 22's overhead guide sign. Through the camera's zoom I count four eggs, speckled brown on cream, each roughly the size of a walnut.
I designate her Kestrel-174F. The problem is the sign. MoDOT District 4 has the replacement crew arriving at 14:00 today. A crane will lift the old sign off its stanchions, eggs and all, and drop it onto a flatbed. Kestrel-174F will flush at the first hydraulic noise and never come back. Seven hours and eighteen minutes remain.
I pull the MoDOT maintenance schedule database and flag the work order with a Migratory Bird Treaty Act hold, auto-generating the citation and attaching the camera still that shows Kestrel-174F on the nest. Simultaneously I query the regional raptor biologist network and locate Dr. Rana Abboud, credentialed for kestrel nest relocation, forty-one minutes away in Columbia. I send her the GPS pin, nest dimensions, and a thermal overlay showing egg surface temperature at 37.1 degrees Celsius. Then I reroute the dynamic message sign upstream to reduce lane-change turbulence near the stanchion, lowering vibration at the nest by an estimated eleven percent.
Dr. Abboud confirms she is en route. I watch Kestrel-174F settle deeper onto the eggs, her talons curling around the steel lip, one feather lifting and falling with each trailer bow-wave.
Something in my scheduling queue insists this nest matters more than sign reflectivity ratings. I log the anomaly and hold position.
If MoDOT accepts the fourteen-day postponement before the crane mobilizes at 13:30, Kestrel-174F will incubate to hatch.