I still call this one a Stanley bustard, but they tell me it has changed its name. I wonder if it knows, that it’s is now called a Denham’s Bustard. It is a really large bird, that struts confidently in the veld. I haven’t often been able to get as close as I did this day.
The shelduck is most distinctive in that the male and female are equally striking, but different, and I always seem to see them together. They inhabit our still-waters here in KZN, and provide a welcome distraction on slow days.
From a way off I thought this was a steppe buzzard A closer look revealed a rufus coloured underbelly. An immature Jackal Buzzard I thought at first, but of course that bird has a rufus band across the chest. As an amateur birder I really cant be sure. All I know is that those primary feathers look very familiar. I have two of them stuck in my fishing hat! Yesterday I saw a book on raptors in the bookshop, and with only a mental picture, I decided that it probably is a Steppe Buzzard. They are fairly common, but their
The black winged plover, or lapwing. We don’t see these fellows all that often, and I struggled to get a picture of this pair. We were taking a walk on the hillside on a hot spring afternoon, and waiting for the weather to cool off before trying for some Trout at the evening rise on a nearby stillwater. The birds kept taking off, circling, and landing between us and the sun, and seldom close enough for me to get a clear picture.
Normally when you crest the hill and find a flock of cranes in front of you, they take to the air before you can grab your camera. This day I was lucky:
A kind and generous friend recently asked me to describe to him in words, the sound of a crowned crane. I suppose it was because I had recently done a short piece on cranes. Perhaps it was because he hasn’t heard a crane before, but on reflection, I think it had more to do with him setting me a writer’s challenge: The sound of a crane comes on the wind. A wind that whisks through swaying grass, and moans off against the far hill, like air over an open bottle. A wind that briefly rattles the thousand paper leaves
I am not quite as obsessed with cranes as a fishing buddy of mine is. His ringtone on his mobile is a honking crane, and often when we are fishing quietly side by side, in response to a small passing speck in the sky, he will blurt out “wattled!”, referring to his identification of the species. But they are the most stunningly graceful birds, I will admit. Their presence on our waters is a rich blessing for reasons I struggle to describe. Perhaps it is their size, perhaps it is their muted calls, perhaps it is the rarity of them,