Kestrel

I suspect reading Ernest Thompson Seton as a child has something to do with my desire to meet animals in the wild, describing as he did the stories of wild animals he had known.  The Little Bush kestrel was one such creature for me.  She lived at Farlington marshes, in the bushes next to the footpath, so I often saw her, and even mapped my sightings to get a clear idea of her home range.  I once watched her hunt fledgling wrens in the brambles, flying at them wings and talons outstretched, thwarted by the thick greenery.  And another time I was carefully creeping close to the marsh harrier, barely 10m away and hovering over the shutter button, before she arrived on the scene and chased it off, much to my annoyance.  I saw her catch a vole once or twice, dancing lower and lower on the wind before dropping like death from the sky and carrying off her prize.  On this occasion, I was walking home on a cold winter day and happened to see her in a low tree next to the path.  I stopped as she gazed at me, not wanting to scare her off.  I got closer, watching for any sign of unease, but she was relaxed and continued to scan the scrub for dinner.  I took many photos that day, and I couldn’t bring myself to delete any of them as she was just so beautiful; fierce, but delicate.

I haven’t seen her since Christmas, and I suspect she has Moved On.

I never really knew her, you can never really know a wild life, but the small events I witnessed gave me a more profound insight to all wild lives.  This was not just a kestrel, this was The Kestrel That Lived Here.