December settles in with a darkness that feels almost ceremonial. The year leans into its longest nights, the cold sharpens the air, and the sky above Fownhope grows deeper, steadier, clearer. Sit with me a while — this is the month when starlight feels closest.

Rising in the east comes Taurus, the Bull, climbing with slow determination through the winter sky. His horns lift first, then his broad shape follows, a familiar companion in these frosty evenings. Close by, Auriga the Charioteer wheels gracefully upward.

To the west, the wide sweep of Andromeda stretches across the dark — a long, gentle chain of stars that has guided storytellers for centuries. And just above her lingers Pegasus, still gliding through the night on his great square wings as he completes his autumn journey and makes way for winter.

Northward, Cepheus keeps his quiet vigil above the horizon, his angular crown tipped toward the Pole. Between him and the Great Bear twists Draco, the dragon, coiling through the darkness in an endless, patient loop. And always, circling steadily above the northern edge of the field, is Ursa Major, the Great Bear — the Plough to most of us — a faithful pointer through the deepest winter nights.

The heavens feel sharper now, etched against the cold. Faint stars come forward, brighter ones seem to harden at their edges, and the whole sky holds a stillness unique to this time of year.

So settle back and breathe the cold air in. December’s darkness isn’t empty — it’s full of old companions, steady in their places, turning above us with a patience that outlasts every season. I’ll keep watch with you while they shine.

Sounds and Smells

Tarry awhile, and you’ll hear how still December can be. The air is sharp and silver-edged, carrying woodsmoke from the cottages below. The ground holds a faint chill of iron and leaf-mould, and the moss behind me breathes green through the frost.

Rooks call from the churchyard, their voices rough and comforting in the cold. A blackbird flicks through the hedge, scattering the last of the berries. Every sound feels magnified — the creak of a branch, the distant bark of a fox, the soft crunch of footsteps on frozen grass. When the frost settles on my seat, it sparkles faintly under starlight, as if the sky has come down to rest beside me.

Badgers wake now and then, nosing along their familiar tracks before the next frost sets in. Deep underground, caterpillars and pupae wait out the cold, and seeds lie hidden, storing the quiet strength that will carry them to spring. Above it all, the Tawny Owls keep watch, their calls echoing through the bare trees, ancient and calm.

December belongs to stillness, but not to emptiness. The night holds everything in suspension — every sound, every scent, every breath of life waiting patiently beneath the cold.

Stay a moment longer, and breathe with me. Feel how the world pauses before the turn, the dark folded gently around us like a blanket. The year is sleeping, but it’s not gone — only gathering itself, ready for the light’s slow return.