Something about winter nights in Otter Creek just settles into my chest and refuses to let go. Maybe it’s the way the cold sharpens everything—the air, the sound, the sky—or maybe it’s the way the quiet gets so deep I can almost hear the snow breathe.
Last night the stars were scattered across the sky like someone shook a handful of diamonds over black velvet. The constellations felt closer than usual, clearer, steadier, hanging over the treetops.
And then there was the glow.
The soft shimmer of Northern Lights—nothing dramatic or wild, just a gentle green mist rising above the hills to the north. It wasn’t shouting for attention, just a quiet glow at the edge of the night. That faint aurora made the whole valley feel alive, like Otter Creek had decided to show off just a little.
There’s no traffic hum, no streetlights, no noise except the crunch of snow under my boots and maybe a distant owl calling from the ridge.
Most people hurry inside this time of year, but I swear winter nights are when Otter Creek is at its best. The darkness isn’t empty—it’s full of stars, full of color, full of quiet that feels like a gift. Out here, under this sky, the world feels simple and enormous at the same time.
And every time I step outside and look up, I’m reminded why I live here.