The hill above our house is a windmill for kites. They are a constant presence, circling like unloosed red sails, gliding with an insouciant, ragged elegance, formed by the sharp angles of long wings, the tilting counterpane of their fine, forked tails and the intense autumnal fire of their feathers: fox reds and russets, winter-sunset orange, coal black, white ash; a marigold bill and feet and a cumulous blue-white head, nape and eye. They have a kind of 1920s, after-party, flapper-glamour about them.
They are also a constant reminder of hope and agency, much needed in these times. Subject of the world’s longest continuous conservation effort and most successful reintroduction programme, red kites are a dramatic emblem of what we are capable of. In case we forget, apart from the last five pairs in Wales, human actions caused their extinction across Britain, where they were once our commonest bird of prey.
Eating mainly carrion and worms, kites are opportunistic hunters that occasionally take smalldelta-shaped wafer-tail counterbalancing and adjusting to every nuance of the wind as if they were riding a slow bicycle. Their call is a plaintive, slightly tuneless ‘peeeow’, like a child learning to whistle.
