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The conservationist's eyes scan across miles of tall grassland, hunting for suspicious activity in the inky blackness.

He utters a hushed tone as we try to find a concealed position in the grasslands. Behind us, the vast metropolis of Beijing has yet to wake. As we wait, the only sound is the sound of breathing.

Suddenly, as the sky begins to brighten ahead of sunrise, there is the crunch of footsteps. The hunters have arrived.

Trapped

Across the heavens, billions of birds, some tiny enough that they could rest in the palm of your hand, are journeying southward for winter.

They have utilized the long summer days in Siberia, or Mongolia, feasting on bugs and berries. As the year nears its end and icy winds bring the early cold of winter, they are flying to warmer places to nest and feed.

China is home to 1500-plus bird species, accounting for thirteen percent of the world's total – more than 800 of those are birds that migrate. Several of the major flyways they follow intersect in China.

The area of meadow being monitored, on the outskirts of the Chinese capital, is an refuge for small birds – any further and the urban landscape offer little opportunity to rest among towering rows of concrete.

It is also an oasis for the poachers and their "barely visible nets", so thin you can barely see them.

A net we almost encountered was strung across half the length of the field and supported with wooden sticks. In the middle, a tiny bird was fighting hard to free his legs, but the more it moved, the more its claws became tangled.

It was a meadow pipit, a protected bird in China, and an important "indicator species" – which signifies if its numbers are thriving, so is its environment.

Tracking the Trappers

Silva, who is in his 30s, carries out this mission for free using his personal funds. He has sacrificed many sleeping hours to set songbirds free, and he has spent the last 10 years persuading the police in Beijing to take this crime seriously.

"In the early days, there was little interest," he says.

So he gathered a team who were concerned and launched a group called the Beijing Migratory Bird Squad. He organized public meetings and brought in the leaders of the local police and forestry bureau. These small and persistent acts of advocacy appear to have worked. The police discovered that catching poachers also helped in uncovering other kinds of illegal operations.

"It became clear our goals were partially aligned," Silva says, adding the caveat that enforcement is still patchy.

His passion for avian life began during childhood. He grew up in the nineties in a much changed capital.

He recalls roaming through the fields on the city's edges where he found birds, frogs and snakes. "However, beginning in the 2000s, everything changed."

China's booming economy brought millions of rural workers to cities. This rapid urbanisation meant grasslands were seen as empty places to build, not protected zones to preserve.

The change stunned Silva. The grasslands started disappearing, as did the ecosystems they sustained.

"I decided back then to dedicate myself to preservation and I chose this direction," he says.

This has not made for an simple journey. A major Beijing's biggest bird dealers found out he was under scrutiny by Silva and fought back.

"He assembled several of his associates who confronted me and assaulted me," Silva recalls. He says he went to the police but those responsible were not brought to justice.

He has also seen the departure of his army of volunteers over the years. This work requires patience and night vigils. Silva says not many are willing to take on the difficult – and sometimes dangerous job.

"I do this full-time," he says. "I made it a project because if you want to address this major issue, you must commit completely. You can't do it part-time."

He says donations pays for some of the costs – more than 100,000 yuan annually – but donations have dipped because of the economic situation.

So he has developed new ways to track the poachers.

He studies aerial photos to find the routes created 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 catch scores of small birds at night.

"Certain prized species sell for a premium," Silva says. "In big cities like Beijing and Tianjin, those who want to own songbirds are now quite wealthy."

While there are wildlife laws in place, Silva argues the fines to deter the activity do not outweigh 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 dates back to the imperial era. Nobles and elites would build elaborate bamboo cages for their birds.

It's a tradition that persists mainly among older individuals in their 60s or 70s. Silva says some elderly citizens don't realise they are committing a wildlife crime, or grasp that so many more birds were killed in a trap for them to purchase a pet.

"These individuals didn't even have enough to eat in their youth. Now with some disposable income, they have inherited the habit and custom of keeping birds in cages," he says. "The nation progressed so fast, there was no time to raise awareness about ecology. Once adults' values are formed, they're really hard to change."

Disrupted

Along a riverside path in Beijing, a vendor has several small cages with chirping songbirds.

Another man is positioned near a nearby market holding a bird cage shrouded in a black veil. He informs passers-by quietly that his songbird is rare, worth nearly 1900 yuan.

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

The path alongside the water extends over several miles and on a sunny weekday morning, there were people looking at everything from vintage jewellery to false teeth.

Information suggested that protected birds could be bought in a nearby green space. It was easy to find.

Music was blasting from a speaker in a shaded area where a troop of elderly ladies were performing a traditional dance. Nearby several men, all over 50, had gathered 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 sales because the police had appeared. They were questioning the bird owners and recording details. Defiant, one man claimed he was {taking his caged bird for a walk|simply exercising his