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Night-song over the endless plains. Rattata turn their faces to the sky, noses twitching in the chill air. For a moment, the stars they so rarely look up to see, obsessed as they are with their short, down-to earth lives, are reflected in their eyes. A lone ponyta, restless and unable to sleep, breaks away from the herd and chases the stream of beautiful notes. Her flames blaze high with new energy as she throws back her head, calling, “Where do you go, night-bird?”

The answer drifts down on a cool night breeze, the song never stopping for an instant.

To the end of the earth, where the sky dies and I can fly no longer.

And the night-bird catches the wind and soars higher, leaving the ponyta far behind.

Night-song over the endless ocean. Mantine leap and skim across the tops of waves, wishing that their clumsy wings could carry them up to join the singer. A wandering lapras, seeking for others of her kind, raises her voice to join the soaring melody. “Whose song do you sing, night-bird?”

The answer drifts down, twining with the lapras’ own melancholy song.

The song I sing is my own, and it is the song of the hills and the rivers and the stars in the sky.

And the night-bird flies on straight and true, the lapras falling behind and alone once more.

Night-song over the darkened mountains. Deep within their labyrinthine tunnels, great craggy beasts pause in their boring and listen to the faint reverberations of far-distant music. A mourner sits high on the harsh mountain slope, bawling to the mother he sees in the moon. Wiping a tear from his grisly helmet, he cries, “Where is your family, night-bird?”

The answer drifts down, soft and comforting notes in the darkness.

My family is every creature in the world, everyone who hears my song.

And the night-bird banks quietly, silhouette sliding across the moon, and leaves the cubone to his grief.

Night-song over the vast desert. Sleepless baltoy whirl and dance across the dunes, tracing crazy patterns in the sand as they waltz to the song in the moonlight-washed night. A cacturne out for a late-night prowl looks up, searching for the form of the singer against the clear night sky. “What do you flee from, night-bird?” he hisses.

The answer drifts down, clear and proud in the freezing air.

I flee only from those who would cage me, and they can never hope to capture me as I fly, for to them I am nothing but a song in the darkness.

And the refrain fades into the distance as the night-bird glides on, the cacturne still straining his eyes in search of her.

Night-song over the great black forest. Noctowl hear it on their own silent sojourns, the tipping of their heads marking off perfect time to the otherworldly tune. Tick-tock, the moon is high. Tick-tock, the stars are singing. Far below, predatory shapes slide through the undergrowth and halt momentarily as the song passes overhead. The pack leader raises his muzzle into the air and howls, “Do you fear the darkness, night-bird?”

The answer drifts down, slipping through the choking canopy to fall on waiting ears.

I know nothing of the darkness, for I always have my song to keep it at bay.

And the night-bird flies on as the leader snorts derisively, then summons his comrades to him with another baying call.

Night-song over the glimmering city. A gritty old street-persian, prowling a grimy rooftop, hears the song and thinks back to better days. A human child, wide-eyed and alert despite the hour, rushes to his window and sticks his head out eagerly, just able to catch the tune over the sigh of traffic and distant wail of sirens. “Who are you, night-bird?” he asks eagerly.

The answer drifts down untarnished through smog and the glow of neon lights.

I am the one that you can hear but never see, the one that you will long to capture but can keep only in your heart and memory.

And the night-bird slips away from the harsh electric glare and wings on into the sunrise.

Then there is no more night-song, no more night-bird, but only a fearow asleep on the wing, ragged feathers streaming in the wind. A flock of loud and boisterous pidgey swirl around her, wakening her with raucous babble and the hammering of their wings. She croaks hoarsely at them, telling them to go away, grumpy and ill-tempered in the harsh morning light. They laugh and jeer at her, the ugly, dirty old bird, and flutter off on their merry way.

One among them quietly hums the night-song and dreams of someday being like the night-bird, she who flies the whole world over on tireless wings and brings her song to all the creatures who will stop to listen, she who is never seen but always heard, her voice bringing beauty to the moon and the stars and the endless night.

And the pidgey flits on with vapid alacrity, little mind spinning with daydreams as the unlovely fearow falls away behind him, unremarkable and soon forgotten on her eternal, lonely flight.