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The Nightingale in Bedelunda
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.