The Nightingale's Secret

The cathedral is a forest. The high ceilings are twisted, gnarled roots reaching for the light. A window above lets in pale green leaves. I wander past tombstones, worn smooth by time and rain. My footsteps echo softly on a wooden floor that gives way to a lawn of leafcutter ants. Beyond, a small room has a table set for one, with a book open to a page with a blank line.

I am here to write something down, but cannot remember what. I sit in the chair and begin to hum a familiar tune. The song comes gently, without effort or thought. A new line appears on the page. I reach out and read it aloud: "The nightingale's secret is written in the leaves."

I continue to sing and write, trying not to think about what I am doing. The words and music are familiar, though the meaning eludes me. It does not matter. The song plays on.