February
February settles in with nights that still feel deep, but with just the faintest hint of change. The cold hangs on, the grass crackles underfoot, yet the sky has begun to loosen ever so slightly. Sit with me as the darkness gathers — this is a month where winter holds on, but spring is quietly clearing its throat.
High in the south, Gemini is perfectly placed, the twins keeping their steady watch over these late-winter evenings. They’ve been climbing higher each month, and February is when they truly take their position in the clear, crisp sky.
Below them stands Canis Major, moving faithfully across the night in step with the season. Close by, but beginning his slow descent, is Orion. I’ve seen him blaze across the winter months with all his usual confidence, but February is when he starts to lean westward — not gone yet, just easing toward his departure.
Rising beside him is Taurus, still strong and purposeful as winter loses its sharpest edge. He’s been the steady companion to Orion all season, and for a few more weeks they share the sky before the spring constellations take over.
Look east and you’ll see Leo lifting himself above the horizon, a sure sign that the balance is beginning to shift. February brings his first confident appearance — unmistakable, unhurried, ready to announce the coming change.
To the north lingers Perseus, holding onto his winter position a little longer before he follows Orion toward the horizon. Winding quietly between the constellations coils Draco, the dragon, unfazed by the season, keeping his patient loop through the colder air.
This is February’s sky — crisp, steady, and full of the quiet overlap between seasons. Stay with me a moment. Winter’s not finished yet, but the first signs of what comes next are already written overhead.
Sounds and Smells
The ground is still hard, the air bright and cold, edged with woodsmoke and the scent of damp moss. Frost sharpens everything — the bark, the soil, even the river’s breath. Beneath it all, life is shifting, quietly testing the edges of winter.
The Tawny Owls are calling more now, their duet rolling across the fields as the days lengthen. It’s courtship season for them, and their voices carry far in the cold air — a reminder that the year is already turning. Badgers stir more often, pushing through frozen leaves to find worms beneath the thawing soil. Deep in their burrows, hedgehogs still sleep, and underground the moth pupae wait out the last of the frost, patient and unseen.
Some evenings, a fox’s bark rings out, sharp and brief, answered faintly from across the valley. A blackbird tries a few notes at dusk, and the robins sing as if to fill the space between seasons. Even the wind sounds different now — less of a chill, more of a breath.
February is still winter, but its silence feels thinner, stretched over something waiting to begin. The stars hang bright and close, and the nights hold a sense of readiness — the countryside pausing, drawing in breath, before spring steps quietly onto the stage.