Just when I was saying to my friend that there are really no birds left at the dry lake except the swamphen, the heron, a sandpiper, some dotterels, rails, and a few black winged stilts, in fly a couple of raptors. “Raptors?” he asks. “Birds of prey.” In addition to all these walkers on wet and dry mud, we still have a couple of birds looking over; a couple of birds flying: the first a medium sized, compact, orange one, maybe a kestrel, maybe a juvenile hobby. “I’m not so good with my raptors,” I say. And then, a moment later into full view: a black-shouldered kite. “As I was saying, not much here, except…”