In the green midnight by the nightingale's northern limit. Heavy leaves hang in a trance, the deaf cars rush toward the neon line. The nightingale's voice doesn't step aside; it's as piercing as a crowing rooster, but pleasant and without conceit. I was in prison and it visited me. I was sick and it visited me. I didn't notice it then, but I do now. Time flows down from the sun and moon and into all the tick tock tick thankful clocks. But right here time doesn't exist. Just the nightingale's voice, those raw ringing notes that whet the night-sky's bright scythe.