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Shell Upon Shell
In the old Irish reckoning this is Samhain itself, the first day of winter, the morning after the night the mounds stood open, and in the Western church it is All Saints Day. The Sun has the day. The Moon reaches its last quarter this afternoon, half lit and half dark, and the evenings are drawing in toward the long nights. Somewhere in the small hours the clocks went back as well, so the dog will want breakfast at the old time and the coffee will be ready before the sky is, and the body will spend the whole day a little behind itself, like a guest who came early and is not sure where to stand.
Morning
If you are up before the sun, which rises just after half past six now and is easier to beat than it was yesterday, it is worth stepping out to look south. The half Moon is standing nearly overhead in the paling sky, with Mars and Jupiter strung out beyond it in a loose line, and low in the east the morning star is clearing the trees. It is the kind of sky that makes you want to count, and I always do, and then I always wonder who first stood in a cold yard and counted the same lights and gave them names.
In Ireland this was the day the herds came home. All summer the cattle had been out on the high grazing with the young people of the house, and an old gloss on the Irish law tracts says they were driven out around May Day and brought back around November Day, which is today. Samhain was the closing of the pastoral year: the beasts counted in, the ones that would not be wintered chosen, the household drawn back together around one fire for the dark half. It was a day for reckoning what you had.
