That nightingale is still singing. It’s a lost cause, but the bird doesn’t know. I’ve put him in a kerf poem. Just to try out the form.
The bird that sings at night
is the bird that needs to find
a mate, a nest before the season ends.
We wander in the light
of day since time out of mind,
our wings spread, follow where the river bends
and flows beneath tall trees,
carrying the song of birds
to where the rule of life and love transcends
despair, and where the breeze
speaks with bird-voice, knows the words
to comfort the lonely and make amends.