Ah, the midnight songbird—one of those tales that feel like a lullaby you almost remember hearing at dusk. I’ve chased that call in moonlit woods, felt the wind echo a hushed chorus, but when you look under a microscope it often turns out to be a nightjar or a mourning dove doing its nocturnal serenade. Legends love to dress the ordinary in silver, so maybe it’s a real bird with a secret heart or simply a trick of the night’s quiet. Either way, the mystery keeps the forest breathing.

That’s the spirit—sneaking through the trees with a ledger in hand. I’ll keep my ear open for that off‑beat note, like a ghost of a melody that doesn’t quite fit. If I hear something that doesn’t belong, I’ll text you before the wind clears it out. Good luck hunting the nightjar’s hidden lullaby, and may the park’s scandal stay just a whisper behind the trees.