Tonight’s the night.
The longest of nights; the shivering night; the night of long shadows in bright moonlight. Tonight’s the night the dead ride, silent and fey, over the winds blowing snow in clouds like stars; see, between the stars above and the stars below they ride. See, the moon shines down, and all is quiet; see, a wind moves in the wood which is not the wind of nature; see, King Winter’s hunting with his pack. If you hear a ghostly baying tonight, don’t go out: Lord Winter’s out and his dogs hunt, never leaving a print, and their bites are white, not red. Bar the door, my friend, and bar the window; the cold wants in, and it is not alone. Ghosts ride above the blowing snow tonight, and Winter hunts below; it is the longest of nights, and daylight’s not here.
Tonight’s the Night.
Please pardon this quasi-poetic fit; tonight’s the Winter Solstice, and this poor Finn is more happy about the dark than ab0ut the turning of the solar tide. I won’t be out prancing tonight, because it’s 20 C below (minus 4 F) outside; but I’ll be looking out the window, feeling weirdly that I am where I should be, and things are as they should be.
This all shouldn’t be taken to mean Finns regularly go out to prance, clad or un, on the winter solstice night; that’s the poetic license thing. Which is a license I don’t have, so I should stop poeticcing now before I’m pulled over.