November

November brings the kind of darkness I was made for. The evenings close in early, the air sharpens, and above Fownhope the stars return in their quiet thousands. Sit here beside me a while, and let your eyes learn the dark again.

High in the south, the great square of Pegasus still glides through the sky — the flying horse of autumn, proud and steady on his course. East of him stands Perseus, the hero, sword raised among faint companions, keeping watch as winter draws near. Beneath them climbs Taurus, the Bull, his horns just rising, marking the season’s slow shift toward frost and firelight.

Nearby, Auriga the Charioteer wheels upward, his bright star Capella glittering gold against the cold. To the north, Cepheus holds his regal shape above the horizon, a quiet king among dimmer stars, while winding between him and the Great Bear coils Draco, the dragon, forever looping through the night.

And there — Ursa Major, the Great Bear, or as many know it, the Plough — swings steadily around the Pole. Its handle points the way to north itself, a faithful guide for anyone wandering home in the dark.

The Milky Way still drifts overhead, pale as breath, fading now with the season’s chill. The sky feels vast but kind — a calm, steady rhythm before the brilliance of winter begins.

So stay a while longer. November’s nights are deep and generous, the stars close and companionable. I’ll keep you company while they turn above us, ancient and unhurried, just as they’ve always done.

Sounds and Smells

I’ve grown used to November’s hush. Settle beside me and you’ll hear it too — the soft rustle of leaves melting back into the grass, the low chatter of rooks returning to roost. Down in the village, a fire crackles somewhere, and its woodsmoke drifts this way, mingling with the damp breath of earth and fallen oak.

The blackbirds work quietly through the hedges, turning leaves for beetles, while jackdaws argue briefly before settling on the church tower. The light slips early now, and the field grows still before its time. When darkness comes, the night feels close — the steady beat of a Tawny Owl’s call, the whisper of the wind through bare branches, the murmur of the Wye moving steadily in the cold.

The hedgehogs have found their winter nests, curled in dry leaves beneath bramble and log. Badgers still forage, slower now but constant, their paths clear in the damp soil. Beneath the surface, the moth pupae lie waiting, and the last seeds of campion and mullein are tucked safely into the dark.

This is the season of retreat, not absence — everything drawn in, quiet, preparing. The air smells of soil and woodsmoke, apples and endings. It’s the scent of the year laying itself gently down, the land turning inward, resting, while the stars grow sharper in the long, clean dark above me.