Once, almost twenty years ago, I heard a nightingale sing. As happens with great pain, the pleasure was so great, that I cannot recall the song at will. Just the echoes remain.

It was on a May weekend, morning, on the slopes of mount Parnasus, in a small practically deserted village. I was drawn to the window by this incredible choral of, I thought, four or five birds. I looked and what did I see, a small thrush like bird, the size of my palm, sitting on the cherry tree and trilling.

I was transfixed. He would run up and down the scales with an incredible sweetnes, of the kind that makes you swoon, and when it reached the highest notes audible to the human ears, he was still going strong, you could see it from his mouth and thorax, up, high,high, and then down again so I could hear him, down to very low notes you would not expect to hear from such a small bird.

He sang continuously, deep into the night. I was walking around dazed, in an altered state of consciousness for sure.

Next year he did not come to the village. There are hunters in the mountains,and the nightingale does not nest close to noise. He likes running water and the bells of sheep.

I tried to find a nightingale's song on the internet. I did find one, but it is not even a pale echo of the song I heard.