October
October arrives with a kind of darkness that feels honest. The evenings cool, the grass crackles underfoot, and the skies over Fownhope stretch wider with every dusk. Sit here beside me a moment — this is the month when autumn and winter trade whispers overhead.
High in the south, Pegasus still glides through the night, his great square shape marking the shift toward longer evenings. Close by drifts Andromeda, her long chain of stars sweeping gently across the dark. The two of them feel like old travelling companions, leading the sky from the brightness of summer into the hush of autumn.
Overhead, Aquila hangs in the cooling air, wings spread as if pausing mid-flight before the season turns. And beside him, stretching from horizon to horizon, is Cygnus, the swan — its long, elegant body easy to follow even as the nights begin to sharpen. These two constellations have kept me company through the warm months, and October is when they start their slow descent toward winter’s edge.
To the east, Taurus begins to rise, a quiet promise of the colder nights to come. He’s only just returning, lifting himself gently above the horizon, but already his presence hints at the deeper skies of the season ahead.
Turn north and you’ll find Cepheus, the king, tilted thoughtfully above the village — a steady figure in the shifting autumn dark. Twisting between him and the broader sky winds Draco, the dragon, coiled in his endless loop, keeping vigil as he always does.
This is October’s gift: a sky full of movement yet calm at its core, constellations crossing paths as they trade seasons. Lean back with me and watch them drift. Winter is on its way, but for now the heavens still hold the gentle balance of autumn — quiet, intricate, and endlessly patient.
Sounds and Smells
Listen a while. October settles gently, like a blanket laid over the land. The air carries the smell of woodsmoke and apples, damp leaves and rain-dark soil. The grass beneath me stays wet now, cool and soft, and the evenings arrive with little ceremony — just a steady dimming, and the faint glow of windows in the village below.
The day’s insects are mostly gone, but the night still moves. Hedgehogs feed busily in the verges, taking their last meals before sleep. Bats flicker through the air on warmer nights, their flights slower now, shorter — a few more hunts before they roost away for winter. The badgers keep their rounds, noses low, tracing familiar paths through the mist.
From the woods, a Tawny Owl calls, its cry low and calm, answered softly across the fields. The rooks gather noisily before dusk, then fall quiet, leaving the sky to the stars. Even the river sounds slower, thickened by rain and fallen leaves.
Everything in October seems to breathe a little deeper. The flowers of summer are gone, the meadows resting, but life hasn’t left — it’s just moved inward, quieter, steadier. This is the month the countryside exhales.
I feel it too: the hush between seasons, the rhythm of things drawing close to the earth again. October belongs to those who listen — to the rustle, the drip, the low, living silence that follows when the harvest is done.