March
March turns up with evenings that finally feel like they’re stretching their legs again. There’s still enough darkness to see the sky clearly, but the balance is shifting — winter loosening its grip, spring edging in. Sit here beside me as the light fades; this is one of the best months for watching the handover overhead.
To the southwest, Orion still stands proudly, though you can tell he’s beginning his slow departure. I’ve watched him rule the winter sky for months, but in March he leans a little lower each night, making room for the constellations of the warming season. Just above him rests Taurus, steady and assured, holding onto his place as the evenings begin their turn toward spring.
Higher in the sky you’ll find Gemini, the twins, settled comfortably in the clear March air. They’re well placed at this time of year, keeping watch as winter fades and the nights begin to soften at the edges.
Look east and Leo is already rising with confidence — the first strong sign that the spring sky is taking over. I’ve seen him arrive every March, unmistakable even before the true dark settles in. He strides upward a little earlier each evening, ready to dominate the months ahead.
Turning north, Lynx winds quietly between the larger constellations, a thin, understated shape threading its way through the clearer sky. And above it all, Cepheus keeps his steady post, tilted calmly over the northern horizon, unchanged by seasons and unhurried by the lengthening days.
This is March’s sky — half winter, half spring, everything in motion but nothing in a rush. Stay with me a little while. It’s a month of gentle transitions, and the heavens are full of them.
Sounds and Smells
The scent of damp earth hangs in the air — rich, cold, and full of promise. Moss glistens on the bank, and the first blades of grass shine wet and new. Blackthorn blossom dusts the hedges, a pale hint of what’s to come. The bonfire smoke of winter lingers, but it’s fading now — the smell of change taking its place.
Listen closely, and you can hear the year waking. Rooks quarrel in the treetops, thrushes sing from high branches, and the steady tapping of a woodpecker rolls through the valley like a heartbeat. By dusk, the sounds soften, and the night begins to take over again.
The Tawny Owls are still calling — partners now, guarding their nesting sites. Badgers move more often, their winter rest behind them, busying the paths that wind between the trees. On mild evenings, bats slip from their roosts, tracing low circles in the cool air, while the first Brimstone Moths flutter out in search of light.
Even the hedgehogs start to stir, testing the warmth before deciding whether to wake for good. Under the soil, pupae and roots are quickening, and every breath seems to hold a faint pulse of green.
March is the hinge between seasons — neither winter nor spring, but something alive in between. The nights are still long, but no longer empty. Every rustle, every call, every moth-wing in the dark says the same thing: the countryside is ready to begin again.