A kestrel’s high hopes are brought down to earth
Had the glowing trail gone cold? The kestrel’s fanned tail shut, its shoulder slipped. Then, with a plunge and a glide, it grazed its wingtip on the floor and swept up on to a fence post in the last minute. There it huddled for a full moment of compact falcon inscrutability, perhaps resting, perhaps frustrated, definitely contemplating its next move. The bird stopped and looked around. I imagined it puzzled. A search that had started with lofty ambitions had been attracted scrabbling down to ground. Once more, the kestrel created to get a fence post to think about its options.
Time to grow, mount the ladder, try again? : The hunt begins with glides and plunges, but ends in a stiff-legged sprint round a field. It was poised for a few slow seconds, in a high flutter over a meadow that has been operating with rodents. Then the kestrel started to descend its skies ladder. Hang, fall, hang, drop, until it steadied over the past invisible rung, five or even six metres over warm fur and busy whiskers. What a kestrel can discern in tussocky grass lies beyond human capabilities.
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Those eyes are able to spot the ultraviolet at a vole’s urine. Though the tiny animals may be partially or almost entirely cloaked in vegetation, their congenital incontinence makes them dribble a telltale trail of lurid wee. Although its beating wings were things of beauty, flecked feathers quivering at a vague blur, I was attracted to the kestrel’s feet. Down came its undercarriage, held at a 45-degree angle to its body, lowered a bit more. Up moved its legs, back into its feathers, then down again, making micro-adjustments of intent. Its talons were fixed at a clenched fist.
Was it stabilising from a crosswind or planning to pounce? Although its beating wings were things of beauty, flecked feathers quivering in a vague blur, I was attracted to the kestrel’s talkative feet. Down came its undercarriage, held at a 45-degree angle to its body, lowered a little more. Up went its legsback to its feathers, then down again, which makes micro-adjustments of intent. Its talons were fixed at a clenched fist. Was it stabilising from a crosswind or planning to pounce? Had the glowing trail gone cold? The kestrel’s fanned tail shut, its own shoulder slipped.
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Then, using a plunge and a slide, it grazed its wingtip over the floor and sailed on to a fence post in the last minute. There it huddled for a full moment of streamlined falcon inscrutability, possibly resting, perhaps frustrated, definitely contemplating its next move. When it lifted off, the kestrel streaked low, this time churns in the tilled soil of the following field. Here it mantled, wings increased umbrella-like over who knows what, but only for an instant before it was running — running — within the bare floor. Here it mantled, wings increased umbrella-like over who knows what, but just for an instant before it had been running — yes, running — over the bare floor.
What a kestrel can differentiate in tussocky grass lies outside human capacities. These eyes can spot the ultraviolet at a vole’s urine. Though the tiny animals may be partially or nearly entirely cloaked in plant, their congenital rash makes them dribble a telltale trail of lurid wee. It was poised for a couple of slow moments, in a high flutter above a meadow which has been running with rodents. Then the kestrel started to descend its sky ladder. Hang, drop, hang, fall, till it steadied on the last imperceptible rung, five or six metres over hot fur and active whiskers.
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Its stiff-legged dash took it 10 metres, a pursuit for a quarry, or phantom quarry, which came to naught. The bird stopped and looked around. I imagined it perplexed. A search that had begun with lofty ambitions had been attracted scrabbling down to earth. Once more, the kestrel made to get a fence post to think about its alternatives.