The Nightingale

NightingaleLast night I woke in eerie light,
Felt called to walk barefoot outside—
Face turned up under full Moon
I heard a nightingale from nearby hill
Sing and sing such lovely tune.

So small a throat!  So small a throat!
Yet between gusts of wind
She pitched a sound whose clarity
Flooded this side of sense with grace, elevated common
Earth that was otherwise merely dense.

Was there effort called forth from this bird?
Did she struggle with every breath
To sing beneath Moon’s light to sanctify
Night with soaring sound so clear and fine?
Or was this her sigh of wordless prayer—
Escaped her heart in ways
She could not help nor stop,
Moved to celebrate the shining Light?

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