Vortex

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He was far more ruthless and efficient than any weapon man could devise. And there was silence, high above the ground, as he watched patiently, waited to go in for the kill. His prey was down there — a long way down — but his eyes were keen and he was hungry.

The grey feathers of the male hen harrier made him look more like a ghost than a real bird as he drifted eerily against the steely light of the dawn sky. He glided effortlessly, his wings fixed in a shallow V-shape as, with the skill of a true hunter, he stalked his unsuspecting prey, low over the ground, only a few metres above the small rodent that would have run had it only known what was about to happen.

And when the moment came, the rodent barely even had time to whimper.

The hen harrier pounced with lightning speed, his talons carrying his suddenly motionless prey high into the sky. All need for secrecy gone, he let out his distinctive cry, a shrill, repetitive trilling that echoed through the crystal morning air. In response, there came a second cry — a female this time — and as if those two bird calls had been a signal for something, the air was suddenly filled with the kaleidoscope sounds of the dawn chorus. But it was the call of the hen harrier that was most distinctive of all.

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