We report somewhere between two shades of pink: brand new clouds have been appearing since day break, and most of them have not moved since. Despite the absence of movement up there, it is windy down here. The gulls are endlessly circling the shore, riding the gale.
We report: the storm water lies still in puddles which have grown to pond size in some spots. As we walk around marshy waters, we see clouds rise from the ground, rain and dew from last night taking up their sky journey anew in their evaporation. It smells like more rain ahead.
We report in the nervous energy at the end of a hot afternoon: all the critters are buzzing around, the humidity is cloying, and the sky is scrunching up like it is gearing up for something. Only, when the storm bursts, the thunder booms but once, and then wisps itself away.
We report: here in the undergrowth, the ground is mottled with sun spots, and the sky only appears where the trees are willing to part. We look up only every now and then as we try to watch our step between brambles and stinging nettles, but the cirrus do not appear to move much.
We report while the warmth of the afternoon is dissipating, the mix in temperatures in the air confusing our senses. The smells of early summer are strong in the fading light, grass, warm gravel, and the scent that is indescribable, but unique to this time of the year.
We report: sometime after the moon has set, and before sunrise, the mist over the ocean begins to get thicker. It slowly seizes the starlight, and the waves become harder to discern. We hear the water swirling nearby, and we wonder if we are imagining it getting louder.
We report under the fastest clouds that we have seen in some time: it is a dry morning, which we are thankful for given this wild wind. It feels quite pleasant when we step outside, even though our hair is very much in our face. Flashes of pink light catch us through the clouds.
We report: these long days keep on getting longer, and the sun lingers at the door while the clouds bruise purple and pink. The moon struggles to find room in the interlude, but we feel exactly in the right place in this instant, our shoulders damp with evening drizzle.
We report a little late in the day: every time we look at the sky, the wind shear is taking it to different places, and simultaneously too. As a result of these contradictory movements, we see a display of the Kelvin-Helmholtz instability, rolling waves crowning the clouds.
We report from our front door: we had not expected the sun to be quite so shy on the first day of meteorological summer. The clouds are sweeping the sky at a great pace, and the gale raises a few shivers in us. We dare say it is a little bit cold even when the sun comes out.
We report: in the small hours of the morning, we caught a few fairies dancing far above the storm. They immediately hid from view again, obviously self-conscious of our noticing them. Our expert whispered about transient luminous events, as though afraid of spooking them away.
We report: over the mountains, the clouds march forever, snagging on the tops, filing them down with the use of rain and time. It is the oldest story that clouds can tell, and it has not ended yet. We do our part by retracing the steps that others have walked before us.
We report: we are headed for a dark, cloudy night under the new moon. The birds are slowly quieting, and the wind is dying down to a whisper. The humidity that has built over the past few days has our head retreating between our shoulders. We get startled by a passing train.
We report: it is windy like it has not been in a long while, and now that all the trees are full of leaves, their rustling sounds like a clamour. The wind shear is streaking through the clouds in a confusing pattern, and the sunshine wavers with the movement of the branches.
