The Nightingale in a Diving Suit

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Deep in an overgrown garden, where the ferns reach the windowsills and the blackberries have overgrown the garden gate, lies a quiet, moss-green pond. No one cares for it anymore – except for one resident: the nightingale.

But this nightingale doesn't sing. For reasons known only to her, she has dedicated herself to diving.

Every evening at dusk, she appears on the shore, clad in a much too large, shiny diving suit. The bronze helmet wobbles slightly on her small head, her rubber fins clumsily slap the stones. Nevertheless, she appears serious, almost venerable, as she prepares: checking the hoses, taking deep breaths, checking the weather – even though the pond is barely deeper than a watering can.

Frogs sit in rows on the water lilies. Some have specially made small flags, others clap politely with their webbed feet. They all agree: It may be strange, but it's definitely worth seeing.

Then the nightingale leaps. With an elegant splash, it dives under. Air bubbles rise, dragonflies flutter away in alarm. And for a moment, all is silent – ​​until it resurfaces, its wings spread, triumphant like a victor.

No one knows what it's looking for down there. Perhaps adventure. Perhaps peace. Perhaps simply a place where no one demands it sing.

Because not everyone with wings wants to fly.