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Dieser Sommer südlich der eigenen Stadt. Die Ruinen haben scharf nachgezogene Linien wie von Canaletto, und eine Heiterkeit in b-Moll steigt mit den Dächern ins Frühlicht. Im Hintergrund seht Ihr den hellen Sandstein, der noch nachdunkeln wird. Auf ganz natürliche Weise. Manche Sachen dunkeln eben nach.
Manche nicht.
Das ist manchmal schwer zu durchschauen.
Es grüßt Euch herzlich
Dulcinea
Ihr hört nicht mehr so oft von mir und meinen Schweinen auf meinem Blog hier. Ich weiß.
Das hat seine Richtigkeit.
Ich breche gerade auf.
Zwischen Leyptzig im Norden und Plaun im Süden, zwischen Roda im Westen und Aldenburg im Osten werde ich viel Zeit verbringen, in der nächsten... Zeit. Aurora werde ich mitnehmen, denn ohne sie und ihr morgenrotes Grunzen kann ich einfach nicht mehr leben. Den Rest überlasse ich Karl. Vielleicht treffe ich unterwegs Fortuna. Sie hat noch nichts von sich hören lassen. Vielleicht begegne ich auch Sancho. Oder seinem Esel. Dann schreibe ich Euch eine Botschaft. Poetische Fundstücke werden weiterhin gepostet.
Ihr hört also von mir.
Macht Euch keine Sorgen.
Ihr findet mich.
Dulcinea
NIGHTINGALE, the bird justly celebrated beyond all others by European writers for the admirable vocal powers which, during some weeks after its return from its winter-quarters in the south, it exercises at all hours of the day and night. The song itself is indescribable, though several attempts, from the time of Aristophanes to the present, have been made to express in syllables the sound of its many notes; and its effects on those that hear it depend so much on their personal disposition as to be as varied as are its tones. To some they suggest melancholy; and many poets have descanted on the bird (which they nearly always make of the feminine gender) leaning its breast against a thorn and pouring forth its melody in anguish. It is accordingly to be observed that the cock alone sings, and that there is no reason to suppose that the cause and intent of his song, unsurpassed though it be, differ in any respect from those of other birds' songs. Sadness, therefore, is certainly the last impelling sentiment that can be properly assigned in this case. In great contrast to the Nightingale's pre-eminent voice is the inconspicuous coloration of its plumage, which is alike in both sexes, and is of a reddish-brown above and dull grayish-white beneath, the breast being rather darker, and the rufous tail showing the only bright tint. The range of this bird in Europe has already been so fully described as to render a further account of it needless. The Nightingale reaches its English home about the middle of April, the males (as is usual among migratory birds) arriving some days before the females; and, often stopping on their way, letting their song be heard in places they do not habitually frequent, pass to their proper breeding-quarters. At this time they run very great danger from bird-catchers, for their capture is effected with facility, and it is painful to add that of those then caught, nine-tenths are said to die within a month. Fortunately for the species, it receives great protection from the practice of game-preserving, which guards from intrusion so many of the localities it affects, and there is probably no country in which the Nightingale breeds more abundantly and in greater security than in England. [...]
