May settles in with evenings that finally feel like they’re giving us a bit of extra time. The light hangs around, but not enough to hide the sky completely — just enough to soften it. Sit with me as the last of the day slips away; this is when late spring shows its shape above us.

High in the south, Leo stands tall, still ruling the season with the confidence of a constellation that knows its moment is nearly up. I’ve watched him march across the sky for weeks, but May is when he reaches his full height before starting his slow slide toward summer.

Beside him rises Bootes, lifting steadily into the evening, his broad outline becoming clearer as the nights warm. Close behind follows Virgo, wide and settled, her shape stretching comfortably across the centre of the sky. Together they form the backbone of spring’s night — open, calm, and quietly sure of themselves.

Overhead, Hercules begins to claim more of the darkness, climbing a little higher each week. He’s never dramatic, but his presence steadies the whole sky as the season shifts.

Turn north and you’ll find Ursa Major, the Plough, circling with its usual reliability — a familiar guide even in these not-quite-dark nights. Threading between the larger shapes moves Lynx, subtle and self-contained, slipping through the quieter spaces where the sky thins. And coiling through it all is Draco, the dragon, winding along his ancient path without ever seeming in a hurry.

This is May’s sky — wide, steady, and easing itself toward summer. Stay here a moment. The nights may be short, but they still offer plenty to see if you let them.

Sounds and Smells

Breathe in — May is alive. The grass is lush and green, heavy with dew, and the hedges spill over with hawthorn and cow parsley. Their scent thickens as the day fades, mingling with the sharp sweetness of new leaves and the faint hum of things just waking for the night.

The first bats appear, tracing silent paths above the field, turning on a whisper to catch the midges that rise like smoke in the dusk. A blackbird still sings, unwilling to let the light go, while a tawny owl calls from deeper in the trees, testing out the quiet spaces between them.

Down among the tall stems, the Mullein Moth has begun its work, laying eggs on the soft leaves that bear its name. Its pale wings go unseen, but its caterpillars will soon feed in the night air, bold yellow and black against the green. Nearer the ground, the first glow-worm larvae stir, hunting snails under the cover of darkness, saving their light for later in the summer.

The hedgerows hum with small lives — beetles turning the soil, moths lifting from the grass, the soft tread of a hedgehog somewhere just out of sight. Even the flowers seem restless, closing and opening in time with the fading sky.

May nights aren’t silent or still; they’re busy, layered, full of quiet exchanges between creatures that depend on the dark. I sit here through it all, the air warm and breathing, the field alive with unseen movement. The night isn’t an ending — it’s half the story, and in May, it’s just beginning to be told.