The kites I like aren't brightly coloured. They're more brown, cream and grey hues. They're not attached to a piece of string. They're free to go where they please. But they catch and glide on the updrafts just the same. They duck, dive and swoop in the air. The enjoy catching bugs and grasshoppers disturbed by the movements of the tractor. When a fire rages they collect the insects trying to escape the inferno. They pick up burning sticks and drop them on unburnt country to excite the insects some more. They prey on small animals like mice and frogs. I hate it when people call them "shit hawks". They have a name. A proper one of dignity. Whistling Kite.
I had one as a pet once. It had a broken wing. A coworker found it and together we helped it heal. We proudly carried it around perched on our arms. At one point we had to shift it to a cage outside but someone, and we've never been sure who but we had our theories, was traumatising it by kicking the cage everytime they went past. It went off it's food and water and our brave, little Nikita had to be put down. As the euthanasia kicked in I watched the light fade from his eyes while his heartbeat slowed then stopped with tears streaking down my cheeks. I rested him in a tuft of grass under a shady tree and said my goodbyes.
But his species still feast on carrion on the roadsides. Still daringly swoop in front of the tractor grasping arthropods as they go. They're the kites I like.
