By mid-morning the light on Lake Natron is unkind, a flat white glare off the soda water that makes everything squint. The flamingos do not mind. They string themselves along the shallows in loose lines, pink against the haze, feeding on the same brew that keeps almost everything else off the lake.
The frame I kept is the one with the person in it. A figure in a red robe walking the flats, small between the birds and the far shore, giving the whole scale of the place away in one stride. Without them it is just a lot of bright water.
All on the 135, stopped down to f/11 and past it to fight the glare off the surface. This is Lake Natron, the caustic soda lake the lesser flamingos come to breed on.