Nightingale

It is dark-

whispering leaves

shuffling footsteps in the spring-night,

standing alone, next to the hedge,

smelling sweetly of spring, I hear

mostly darkness and silence.

Suddenly, a note leaps into the night,

a certain kind of magic

leaps into the darkness.

Touches heart, illuminates the night,

with clarity, kindness, genuity,

the beauty of a song.

It flies, on the dark night air,

on the starlight-shimmering breeze,

straight into my heart.

In the starlight, every note

seems like a jewel.

Pearls of beauty, spilling from her,

and I listen,

transfixed, even the trees are silent,

Mother Nature stands in awe,

of her most talented musician.

Next morning, breezy sunlight,

the magic of the night is

as faraway as a dream.

I walk to the hedge, eager to investiagate,

a human busybody

searching for an etheral phemomenon.

What I find, is undramatic.

Unpretentious, unassumaing.

Almost plain, I walked by her, twice,

without her music, it seems

there is not much to see.

Kind eyes, sharply defined features

a tiny creature

grey and brown, almost frail-looking,

sleepy and calm, she looks at me,

the nightingale.

Her eyes,

are almost wise,

clarity, kindness, genuity,

reflected in the mirrors of her voice.

Her brown feathers, her white coat,

reflects in its soft, shimmering beauty,

her song.

It’s the music that matters, to most,

it is the music that we see,

the music that wrenches our hearts,

inspires us, delights us, stirs us.

It’s the music that matters, for most,

it is the music that we hear.

But looking eye to eye

with the nightingale, I realize

it is the music that matters,

but it is her, who sings it.