It’s 8 a.m. on Sunday morning in Mallorca. My planned sunrise shoot was never going to happen—not after a barbecue and a few too many beers with friends the night before. So instead, I opted for a slow stroll to the hide in the Albufereta.

The flamingoes were nowhere to be seen. A mother ringed plover darted across the path in front of the hide, followed closely by a single fledgling. The ever-present black-winged stilts squeaked and protested as usual. The fledgling scurried about, pecking at bugs under the constant, watchful eye of its mother.

The sky was overcast, though the clouds hinted at clearing. I spent an hour quietly watching the drama of these small birds unfold like a silent film. Eventually, I made my way back to the car. As I wandered through the woods, with only birdsong breaking the silence, I spotted something perched on an observation tower.

I slowed down and entered "stealth mode," carefully approaching the structure. There, surveying the surrounding fields, sat a common kestrel. I fired off a few safety shots to capture the scene, then moved a little closer. He was watching me, I knew he’d take flight any moment. Keeping the camera trained, I crept closer still, shooting in short bursts.

Then, as expected, he spread his wings and vanished into the distance.

A quick review of the images gave me hope that I’d caught a few frames of him in flight. Time for a coffee. I left the park with a sense of calm and satisfaction and a quiet excitement about what I might have captured.