At sundown kestrels call to each other across the garden, flocking in the large elm tree that stands over the shed like an elder waiting patiently at a parade. In a year they’ll disperse, as some hunters must, but now they take a slow route home, crisscrossing the air in formation like pilots doing barrel rolls, loop the loops, even hammerheads. All to cascades of song. When the singing stops and the birds still, the trees move gently in the wet air like applause.