Nightingale. May concerts of the incomparable forest tenor. Izmailovo.

The path was lost by a large overgrown ravine and drowned in already wildly spreading nettles and touch-me-not. Old lindens gazed into the lilac pre-sunset sky and hid the tongues of the setting sun in a sticky layer of shadows. A cozy evening filled with the songs of thrushes and starlings; somewhere in the crowns the goldfinches’ little bells tinkled. Suddenly the voices fell silent and a hush reigned, like in a theatre after the audience’s applause, when the lights go down and the spotlights focus on the stage before the action begins. A nightingale began to sing. Long, drawn, velvety notes gave way to a staccato of short high sounds, then a trill rising from low warbles to bright highs and an incredibly intricate yet melodic continuation—perfectly crafted, deliberate, without the slightest roughness. An experienced master. It seemed all of nature held its breath, listening to the late-spring symphony; even the wind did not want to interrupt it. The melody scattered like lilac pollen through the evening and sank into the May wine of the sunset. After a few minutes the nightingale vanished into the dense shrubbery. Reddish rays touched the bright May foliage. The first hints of coolness were felt. The fragrant, floral air thickened. Here, on the threshold between spring and summer in those enchanted nightingale evenings, there came alive an absolute magic one could almost touch. Time slowed, and after a few minutes the long second act of the magnificent tenor’s performance began…