Hot sun on the Heath, lush and bosky from months of rain. The green lung of North London breathes warm chlorophyll over the well-heeled of Hampstead, as they sprawl around proper picture-book picnics. Rugs, baskets and wine. Dogs with human names (Simon). All expand and slow gratefully in the long-awaited heat.
Including a kestrel. On the path in front of me, just sitting there. Only a couple of feet away, and seemingly unbothered. I've never seen a bird of prey so close before (other than an owl called Hubey in a failed aerial display - too fat to fly). So much so that I am worried that it is wounded. It's not. It's just very relaxed. It stays for ages, but eventually gets spooked by a small child on a scooter.
Understandably. Scooters are dangerous. Child at play beats bird of prey.
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