Warm afternoons in September often bring the Buzzards through. The local family group or “wake” maintain contact with one another with their mewing cries. They share a thermal but not at a single altitude – I tend to notice the lowest first and then, as my eyes adjust, another, then a third and a fourth. Each higher than the last. The group seem to circle lazily, but then you become aware how far and fast they are drifting. They are watching, scanning, looking. Gathering as if at a funeral. A wake of Buzzards.