December 2025
December 2nd
We report as our expert is taking note of the altitude of the clouds: it is cold in the wintry sort of way that there is simply not enough sunlight in the day to meaningfully warm up the air anymore. There is a thin bit of radiation fog rising near the ground.
December 1st
We report: for the first few hours of the night, the sky was only an expanse of light-eating, inky black. When the waxing gibbous moon appeared through gauzy clouds, we almost thought a silver sun was rising. We find blue shadows spilled out over our bed, dripping onto the floor.
December 4th
We report: we caught a movement in the sky, something unfurling and twisting itself in and out of shape. To the naked eye, it is just quick enough to see it happen in real time. We know how these clouds go, but it does not take away from watching this one at its freest.
December 3rd
We report: when the clouds form out of the ether this way, we get the feeling we are being shown the invisible mechanism that holds the sky together. The scales of this mackerel sky are rapidly joining together, and we can feel the air getting more humid. We unfold our raincoat.
December 5th
We report: standing a ways away from the trees, we hear the birds and their hubbub of a conversation - sparrows we think. Our expert knows not enough about birds to have an opinion on the matter. No rain, but we see clouds floating low under the beams of the streetlights.
December 7th
We report: it occurs to us as we are looking up that we might still be dreaming. There is a slight haze to the sky, and the light seems to be coming from very far away, soft around the edges. It is a little too cold for a dream, though, and this is what shakes us out of it.
December 6th
We report somewhere between rain clouds: we have not had to wake up very early to witness the sunrise lately. This is one of the reasons we are able to appreciate the months surrounding the winter solstice. The heavier clouds on the approach turn the sky dark again.
December 11th
We report: the wind is forming white horses on the open sea. Our expert thinks this is a 4 or a 5 on the Beaufort scale. We like it when our expert brings up scales and numbers, and when they are not quite descriptive enough. The sun skims the sea foam with low, timorous rays.
December 8th
We report as we are waiting for the train. A small murmuration has risen from the trees, and has been drawing arabesques in the sky around us, like a pile of dead leaves scattered on the wind. It has been raining since the morning, a steady pour disguised as a light drizzle.
December 9th
We report: all of the wind of these past few weeks has stripped the trees bare here. The ground is all mulch and rotting wood, and we are bound to get a foot stuck in there at some point tonight. With no leaves on the branches, and barely a breeze, the night is eerily quiet.
December 21st
We report: in the very long night before nights start getting shorter, there are more stars than we have seen in some time. In the sharp chill of after midnight, we watch a stray child from the Geminids dash in between Castor and Pollux, and then it is gone for good.
December 10th
We report at dawn, when the sun is spitting out scoria into the sky before much light can even be seen. It seems a little brave, this kind of sunrise in December, when we know how scarce daylight is these days. It feels like the sun is making promises it cannot keep.
December 12th
We report mid-afternoon, in a hurry between two places. We do not even know whether it is raining or not at this point in time. We look out for the clouds as they pass over our head, but when we think we know their name, the light changes, and they emerge as different creatures.
December 13th
We report: the Geminid meteor shower peak has come around again. Like a tired running joke, though the sky was clear, it pulled a blanket onto itself in the evening, fair, understandable, so would we. The stars we see stay still, which is fine. We hope to see them fall next year.
December 14th
We report late afternoon: we come out at sunset to look at distant squiggles caught in light. It is cold, and the sun goes quickly, so we are back inside within minutes. It is really good; our cheeks burn, our nose runs, and we are still smiling when we meet eyes in the mirror.
December 15th
We report: we watch layers of air mingling along gravity waves. We hear a little bit of music in the frequency of the waves; harmonies resonate in the ebbing of the clouds. On the ground, the wind is also drawing tight ripples on puddles, small-scale practice for grander schemes.
December 16th
We report halfway through the month-long sunset that is December. We go through the days trying out different flavours of endings, and in this continuous fade-out, rain is present on almost each of those days. We weave our way around curtains of water and light.
December 17th
We report: in the depths of bog country, the will-o’-the-wisps of distant city lights are keeping the sky three shades above full darkness. This is not enough light to observe the night life we hear, no matter how much we squint. We still think we see things move above the water.
December 18th
We report: at this late point in December, it is as though the sun is aware it only has a scarce few evenings left to make the best sunset of the year. And though we have adored every sunset since the beginning of January, we know we will call each one of those our new favourite.
December 19th
We report: we had thought these clouds might expand into another form, but they seem to be collapsing instead. We have a thought towards the storm chaser we met last year, and we wonder how he deals with the clouds that do not make it to storms, how he fares in the off-season.
December 20th
We report back from the wettest walk we have had all year. At first, it was a drizzle, and it was a pleasant time. It got progressively heavier, until the rain started hitting our face head on. We came home with the impression that we had just narrowly avoided drowning.
December 22nd
We report at dawn, when the weather is about to turn - a sweet, pink sunrise like this, we know something has changed in the atmospheric pressure. This will be the first day during which we will not lose light since June. As usual, we do not see a difference, but we want to.
December 23rd
We report: it has stopped raining, and the sky has cleared out some, but it is not quite sunny yet. The humidity is still shimmering in the air, even though the wind is now coming in strong; it is cold like this. The clouds are being diluted into liquid shapes up there.
December 24th
We report late in the morning: the clouds are taking root, big old trees casting enough shade to make it look like dusk. In the leaden sky, we find whispers of snow. It has been cold for days now, has had time to settle in. It burns our nose and the tips of our fingers.
December 25th
We report: all the snow and the ice came in the very last hours of the night. It is a paper thin layer on the ground, and it will likely melt when the sun comes out, but the view is arresting nonetheless. Our expert is trying hard to contain their excitement, unsuccessfully.
December 26th
We report a few minutes before sunset: it seems to us the sun has been hovering there for a long time. We almost fall on our face several times for our staring at it to the side, but it is simply not moving. But then, of course, we look away for a moment, and it disappears.
December 27th
We report: the gorse shrubs are flowering under the cold sun in fat yellow blooms. The wind carries a smell of honey when we walk by too close, and the thorns catch in our hair and clothes. The blue sky falls in deep puddles in the middle of our path. We have to step around it.
December 28th
We report as we are losing blue sky to this cumulonimbus. It has been noted throughout the day that it is still quite cold, which our expert attributes to the mean sea-level pressure remaining high throughout the week. We think it should snow, if only because we would like it.
December 29th
We report: we have seen this bright, bright spot in the sky enough times over the past few days that we remembered to ask our expert what planet it is. This is Jupiter, bracketed by Gemini and Canis Minor. We spend some time imagining we can see the storm raging on its surface.
December 30th
We report from high in the clouds, where there is warmth in the perishing light, and where things move fast in a way that makes sense. For this little while, we do not think about the tiredness of dark days, and the languor that the cold has wrapped our bones in.
December 31st
We report: this is a bluebird day. It went below freezing last night, and when we got out this morning, there were icicles on branches, and a thin layer of ice on puddles. The sky is big and empty; we can only assume this year is all out of clouds, which is only fair.