The stars seem very far apart this night. The bright moon castes deep shadows and is circled by a halo of ice and light. The grass rustles like paper, frosted and dry as it is. There is a warm smell of wood smoke hanging in the stillness of the air. Tonight the foxes will skitter and skit across the frozen ponds to the cold and sleeping ducks and snatch them from their dreams. Tonight the owl's wings will haunt the hedges, but mice will huddle safe in clusters, close together for safety and warmth. In holes in the wall, in hedges and trees wrens will form feather balls, packed in tight. They will sleep soundly in the safety of numbers, quiet as quiet, so that the stalking weasel will not hear.
And we will sleep draped over arm chairs and fire and bed, warm in the house where the dragon fire slumbers, while She dreams and reads and the dogs snore and remember in their moonlit slumber a dim and distant past when they were wolves.