We are driving along a dusty road in Italy with telegraph poles alongside it. Every few hundred metres is a Kestrel, or, as they call them in Orkney, a Moosiehaak, perched on top of one. Most of them fly as we approach. This one didn’t:
I wonder whether it was too full of mouse to be bothered.
Over forty years ago I drew a pencil sketch of a Kestrel in my nature notebooks showing the same plumage:
It’s time to drive on and let it digest its dinner.