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Silva Gu's vision darts across miles of tall grassland, hunting for any movement in the pre-dawn darkness.

He speaks in a hushed tone as the team seeks a place of cover in the open area. In the distance, the huge urban center of Beijing remains asleep. As we wait, the only sound is the sound of breathing.

And then, as the sky turns a shade lighter before dawn, there is the crunch of footsteps. The poachers are here.

Trapped

Overhead, a multitude of winged travelers, some tiny enough that they could rest in the cup of a hand, are journeying southward for winter.

They have taken advantage of the warmer months in northern regions, consuming bugs and berries. As the year nears its end and cold breezes bring the first frosts of winter, they head to southern locales to nest and feed.

There are 1500-plus bird species, which is about thirteen percent of the planet's species – more than 800 of those are birds that migrate. Several of the major migration routes they follow cross through China.

The patch of grassland where we were, on the edges of the Chinese capital, is an oasis for small birds – any further and the city skies offer scant chance to rest among towering rows of concrete.

It is equally attractive for the poachers and their "fine nets", so delicate you can almost miss them.

The trap we stumbled upon was stretched across half the length of the field and supported with bamboo poles. At its center, a small finch was desperately trying to untangle itself, but the more it moved, the more its claws became tangled.

This was a meadow pipit, a species under protection in China, and an important "bio-indicator" – which signifies if its population is healthy, so is its habitat.

Hunting the Hunters

The conservationist, in his thirties, does this work for free using his personal funds. He has forgone many sleeping hours to release trapped birds, and he has spent the last 10 years urging the police in Beijing to prioritize this issue.

"In the early days, no-one cared," he says.

So he recruited volunteers who did care and formed a group known as the Beijing Migratory Bird Squad. He held community gatherings and invited the leaders of the local police and forestry bureau. These small and persistent acts of advocacy appear to have worked. The police found that catching poachers also helped in identifying other kinds of illegal operations.

"It became clear our objectives became somewhat shared," Silva says, noting that the response is not uniform.

This fascination with birds started in childhood. He was raised in the 1990s in a much changed capital.

He recalls roaming through the grasslands on the city's edges where he found birds, frogs and snakes. "But starting from the 2000s, everything changed."

Rapid economic growth brought a huge influx of rural workers to cities. This expansion meant grasslands were viewed as areas for development, not sanctuaries to conserve.

The transformation was alarming. The grasslands started disappearing, as did the wildlife they housed.

"I decided back then to dedicate myself to preservation and I followed this course," he says.

This has not made for an easy life. A major Beijing's biggest bird dealers discovered he was being investigated by Silva and retaliated.

"He assembled several of his accomplices who surrounded me and assaulted me," Silva remembers. He says he went to the police but those responsible were not held accountable.

He has also seen the departure of his army of volunteers over the years. This work demands stealth and sleepless nights. Silva says not many are willing to take on the difficult – and sometimes dangerous job.

"My life is devoted to this," he says. "I made it a project because if you want to solve this big problem, you must commit completely. You can't do it part-time."

He says donations pays for some of the costs – over 100,000 yuan a year – but donations have dipped because of the slowing economy.

So he has adopted new ways to track the poachers.

He examines satellite imagery to find the trails worn away by the poachers. He charts these against the birds' migratory routes and looks for areas where they may rest. The satellite images can even show netting setups which can capture hundreds of small birds during darkness.

"Siberian rubythroats and bluethroats sell for a premium," Silva says. "In urban centers like Beijing and Tianjin, those who want to own songbirds are now quite wealthy."

Although there are environmental regulations in place, Silva argues the fines to punish the crime do not exceed the potential profits of trapping and trading songbirds.

Owning a pet bird was – and for some generations in China, still is – a status symbol. This originates from the Qing dynasty. Wealthy individuals would build elaborate bamboo cages for their birds.

This custom that persists mainly among retired men in their later years. Silva says some elderly citizens don't realise they are committing a wildlife crime, or understand that numerous birds were killed in a trap for them to purchase a caged bird.

"These individuals didn't even have enough to eat growing up. Now with some disposable income, they have inherited the habit and custom of caging birds," he says. "The nation progressed so fast, there was little opportunity to educate people about the environment. Once people's attitudes are set, they're really hard to change."

Apprehended

Along a riverside path in Beijing, a vendor has several tiny enclosures with tiny twittering birds.

A separate individual is positioned near a local market holding a bird cage covered by a black veil. He informs passers-by quietly that his songbird is valuable, worth nearly 1900 yuan.

This offers a view of an old Beijing where small unofficial traders have created their own market.

The path by the river stretches for several miles and on a sunny weekday morning, there were shoppers browsing everything from vintage jewellery to false teeth.

Information suggested that wild songbirds could be bought in a nearby green space. The location was not concealed.

Loud music played from a speaker under the low trees where a troop of elderly ladies were choreographing a traditional dance. Close by several men, all over 50, had congregated with bird cages – some had two or three in their hands. Most were concealed by dark cloth.

But on this occasion there would be no transactions because the police had arrived. They were interviewing the bird owners and recording details. Unyielding, one man said he was {taking his caged bird for a walk|simply exercising his