Outside, inside.

Outside it is dark. A paw has thrown up few stars to glitter the night sky and they caste little light. The moon is the thinest sliver not yet riding the velvet dark sky. You cannot see even a whisker in front of your face. The wind is rising and bushes blow, bending into dark monsters, cold, biting.
Inside cats curl in every corner, on every cushion. The fire glows with red and gold light. The wind rattles at windows and doors, night monsters wanting to come join us, to curl in the warm and settle to this most peaceful of nights. We keep the doors and windows closed and listen to their wind-singing.

Later we walk the bounds of the village with Her and the dogs, before they curl into bed. There are no street lights here. Nothing to light the way but the moon and stars and if it is possible it has become darker still in the depth of night. The wind turns and twists the few dry leaves left clinging to the winter bones of the trees. The sky sparkles stars, and the clouds are lit bright white against the black, dark sky. Where the light comes from we do not know. Maybe from the clouds themselves. The wind nips at our bright fur and we are glad to be back in the haven of the house, where we curl again before the fire, to dream the night away and wait for day to dawn again. Winter comes.