September
September settles in with a darkness that feels newly earned. The days are still warm enough to fool you, but the evenings arrive earlier, quiet as a held breath. Sit here beside me as the light fades — the sky is beginning its slow turn toward autumn, and the signs are all above us.
High in the east, Pegasus rises, his great square shape returning to take charge of the season. I’ve watched him arrive every September, steady and unmistakable, a herald for the cooler nights ahead. Just beneath him drifts Pisces, a soft, sprawling constellation whose gentle outline suits these in-between evenings — neither summer nor quite yet autumn, but something easy and thoughtful in between.
Overhead, Aquila lingers from the brighter months, still holding his place in the cooling sky. Beside him stretches Cygnus, its long graceful form cutting cleanly across the darkness. These two have been the centrepiece of summer, and September is the month when they begin their slow glide westward, easing themselves out of the high sky with a kind of unhurried dignity.
Turn toward the north and you’ll find Draco, the dragon, quietly looping between the constellations as he always does — unbothered by seasons, forever winding through the dusk. And close by, circling with faithful patience, is Ursa Major, the Plough, a familiar shape for anyone finding their bearings on an evening walk home.
The whole sky in September feels poised — not busy, not bare, but leaning gently toward longer nights. The constellations you see now are the ones that guide us through the shift: some arriving, some departing, all moving with a calm assurance that the year still has plenty of dark and wonder to offer.
Stay with me a while. September is quiet, but never empty.
Sounds and Smells
Breathe deeply and listen. The scent of hay still lingers in the field, mingled with the sweetness of blackberries and the first trace of woodsmoke on the air. The river carries a cooler breath now, edged with silt and the slow drift of falling leaves.
The nights are longer again, and the daytime voices fade earlier. Swallows gather on the wires, restless with departure, while bats make the most of the mild evenings — their final flights before the chill sends them to shelter. Moths still move through the hedges, drawn to what few blossoms remain, but their numbers thin with each colder dawn.
Down in the grass, hedgehogs feed with purpose, building their reserves for the winter to come. Badgers too grow busier, caching what they can, their trails clear in the dew. The Tawny Owls are more vocal now, calling to reassert their places in the dark, their cries carrying through the cooling air.
Even the plants seem to slow. Honeysuckle’s sweetness fades to fruit; the last primroses long gone; the earth itself smelling richer, heavier. The sky deepens earlier each night, stars sharpening as the evenings cool.
September isn’t silent, just softened — a gentle turning inward. The night feels thoughtful now, the air full of the season’s quiet instructions: gather, rest, prepare. I listen, still and wooden, as everything around me begins to fold itself carefully into autumn.