A woodsy vista framed a small artificial ravine. Scattered in the dusk amongst the trees and along the streamlet were hundreds of tiny, luminous treefrogs variously candy-coloured, all singing. They sang in chords, pitch perfect. One chord rising and dying away to be replaced by another. The creatures' luminocity rose and fell as they sang so the progress of each pure note could be followed by they eye as well as the ear. The ravine's acoustics bounced that quite not music around in a highly synergistic fashion. Miles' brain seemed to stop dead for a full three minutes at the sheer absurd beauty of it all.

from Cetaganda, by Lois McMaster Bujold