Twilight at noon. Aurora visible for seven weeks. The snow reflects what little light the stars provide and the rest of the world learns what darkness is without qualifier.
The civil twilight hangs at noon for forty minutes, a navy-grey gradient on the southern horizon, then retreats. The body keeps waking at hours it cannot justify.
Not occasion — weather. The green and violet ribbons sweep the sky on most clear nights and become, eventually, unremarkable. This is the season's first betrayal.
Orion overhead at lunchtime. The navigational instinct reverses; the sky no longer marks the day. Time is measured in tasks completed, not hours passed.
In the absence of sun, whatever has been murmuring inside you becomes the loudest thing in the room. The entries from this season are quieter outside and louder within.