And the cute little singer is back again ...
It is half past five in the morning (Middle European Day Saving Time, or 03:30 Z), and more than an hour ago I was awoken by my domestic nightingale. I decided not to wake my beautiful wife sleeping so sound and arose stealthily, took grandpa's WWI field glasses and left my house. The pretty little bird didn't sit before my window in the vines as I suspected but six yards up on my rooftop singing loudly. And the next nightingale I heard in the mighty oak planted half a century ago as memorial to one of our freedom fighters in the Napoleonic war. And the next a hundred yards further on a neighbour's [AE: neighbor's] roof. And the next about fifty yards further - hopping around on the lawn courting the travelling spinster (C. Mead) he had attracted by his wonderful song. The sun started to rise, and a flight of ducks in formation circled around the small pond in another neighbour's garden [hi Geoff! Quack!]
Yesterday in the German-Irish club was a session with three guitars, a mandola, a whistle, two singers more and the unevitable (naturally female) bodhran player. At my request they played The Nightingales Sing as posted above - marvelous!
Oh God, how beautiful life can be!