📍 Borgarfjarðarhöfn, Iceland The drizzle had been coming in all morning, the kind that doesn't commit to being rain but accumulates anyway, and the wind off the water had that particular Icelandic quality of cold that finds the gaps. The puffins on the outcropping did not adjust. They settled into the grass the way they always settle, round and low, and stayed there. Atlantic puffins spend most of their lives at sea, returning to land only to breed. They are engineered for water in a way that makes a drizzly cliff edge register as nothing at all. This one had found a hollow in the grass and simply become part of it, body disappeared into the green, that orange beak the only colour left in the whole grey morning. I gave up before it did. My fingers went first.