January
January arrives with long evenings and properly dark skies — the sort that make it easy to see what’s going on above us. The cold steadies everything — the fields, the hedges, even the sky — and the darkness settles early enough for you to sit with me and watch the heavens in their winter order.
High in the south stands Orion, the unmistakable figure of the season. He’s at his best in January, holding the centre of the sky with the confidence of a constellation that knows it belongs to winter. Beside him rises Taurus, steady and purposeful, accompanying Orion through the coldest nights as he has for as long as anyone has been looking up.
Tilt your gaze a little higher and you’ll find Auriga, settling comfortably into his winter post. He holds his place with quiet certainty, watching over the long evenings that January brings. Not far away, Gemini climbs higher each week, easing into the upper sky as the month unfolds. The twins are well suited to these clear nights, keeping guard as winter runs its course.
Turn north and Ursa Major, the Plough, makes its slow, reliable circuit above the village — a familiar guide on even the frostiest walks home. Above it rests Cepheus, steady and dignified as ever, leaning thoughtfully over the northern edge of the field. He doesn’t change much from season to season, but in January his presence feels especially grounding.
This is January’s sky — crisp, settled, and sure of itself. Everything is in its rightful place, the constellations holding steady as the year begins. Sit with me a while. The nights are long, yes, but they’re generous too, full of patterns that have seen countless winters come and go. I’ll keep watch with you.
Sounds and Smells
Breathe in: the air is cold enough to sting, edged with woodsmoke and the faint sweetness of frost. The grass crackles underfoot, and the ground rests tight and quiet beneath its skin of ice. From the river comes a drift of mist, carrying the smell of water and stone — the scent of everything pared back to its bones.
The world seems sleeping, but it isn’t gone. Badgers doze in their setts, waking now and then to forage on softer nights. Hedgehogs lie curled in their leaf-lined nests, their breathing slow as the earth itself. The bats hang hidden in hollow trees, their hearts barely beating, while underground the caterpillars of the Mullein Moth wait out the winter, safe in their cocoons of soil.
Overhead, the tawny owls keep their rounds, their calls sharper in the frosty air — too-wit, too-woo, echoing between bare branches. Now and then a fox passes, its paws silent on frozen ground, its shape ghostly against the starlight.
This is the night stripped back to its essentials: breath, light, sound, and the quiet pulse of things waiting to return. I feel it too, the long pause before the year turns. January belongs to silence — the kind that holds the promise of movement, and draws the eye upward to the stars.