"I caught this morning morning's minion, king- "

Okay...I'll admit it. I didn't come up with that title myself. It belongs to Gerard Manly Hopkins and kicks off his poem 'The Windhover'. These birds aren't exactly 'the mornings minion king', they're quite common birds that flicker occasionally over the Cornish coast. I think they're stonechats or goldfinches. Either way they can't compete with the kestral that Hopkins is describing. But they are the first birds that I've photographed. I've been wanting to capture them for a long time, and my chance finally came. Thank goodness for zoom lens'.

I fidget in my part of the nest, shifting myself over misplaced twigs and edges

Cheeps of annoyance rise painfully from the rest of the nest as I upset the others

I wince and duck to avoid several pecks that fly my way

I’m forced to the outside, where the wind runs coolest and harshest

I fluff up my feathers to pocket the warmth

It starts with an experimental peck at a loose bit of nest,

A curious shuffle forwards, a tentative taste of the air

The wind carries me the rest of the way

The placid breeze impatiently pushing me further and further over the dome…

Crap. If I could talk I would be screaming as the air tears me up

I’m falling, dropping, tumbling, sinking, plummeting

Plunging into a corridor of gravity

My wings strangle themselves uselessly at my sides

Flapping and twitching, flailing and shuddering

With a sudden popping sound they wrench themselves free and hit the air

Panic floods into peace and relief saturates me

I’m hanging in space, suspended in my terror and not knowing what the heck I’m doing

I touch the air current with the tip of my wing and dip dramatically to the right

Adrenaline pumps through me, my wings quiver

With an experimental fervour that drums through me in a fashion dangerously similar to insanity

I lift my wings high above my head and flap hard

I shoot upwards, rapidly climbing the sky and grappling with the height I lost

I flap again and suddenly I’m soaring, coursing on the air currents and dancing through the clouds

It makes so much sense

I can see the sky running before me like a map; I can see the winds that flood towards me

Sweep elegantly across the plain, picking up leaves and hurling them where they please

I almost laugh in contempt

With a cry of elation I swoop down and land on my nest, rousing a cry of alarm from those within

My superiority fluffs up my chest until I can hardly see the little chicks inside

I hear their incredulity and smile

I can fly.