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There's a nightingale or two in the woods.

They're small birds, sparrow-sized, and about as flashy: drab brown is the best way to describe them.

I expect they get their voice from another dimension, because how else can a bird that size be that loud?

There's lots in the woods nearby, and having two of them singing at each other is nice -- for about 10 minutes. Then it gets tedious.

So imagine, if you will, a night in early summer, when it's so hot that you have to open your windows. Imagine also a bird which never ever repeats itself, shouting its little head off in the woods nearby. Now look at the clock: 1 am. 2 am. 3 am. 4 am ... as the song of the nightingale is ever variable you can't get used to it, and it's impossible to go to sleep on the noise.

Frankly, I fail to see the appeal of nightingales.


They broil nicely.

Keats poem, Ode to a Nightingale, starts “My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense as though of hemlock I had drunk..“

He sure knew how to put things into words. That nicely describes the feeling you get if you try to get some sleep while a nightingale sings.

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