March 15th

We report: our expert, who inexplicably owns several sets of keys, is trying to find their house key in the dark. We look up while we wait. Somehow, the sky is never as lovely of a sight as when we see it in a stolen moment. We lag behind even as the door is opening.

March 14th

We report in troubled waters: the crashing waves of the sky make no sound, but they are no less impressive to the eye. We always expect the whole world to stop when the clouds reach a certain level of oddity; most of the time, nothing happens. The sky always clears up, too.

March 13th

We report: mid-March, it still gets properly cold. It is freezing out here, especially when the sun is gone for long stretches of time. The wind is whipping our hair into our eyes while we watch bright green surge out of the ground; a strange colour after all these months.

March 12th

We report late in the evening, in a pre-sunset kind of situation. It is a consolation sunset that happens when the sky will be too overcast for the genuine sunset, later on. We are not very upset; it is very windy, and we can feel the rain coming on in the weight of the clouds.

March 11th

We report: the humidity has fallen on us ravenous with the night, and we feel it in the sharp edges of the air (our expert’s nose is very red). There is something a little eerie about this moment; the sky already dark, a few stars out, and yet the clouds are still bright.

March 10th

We report about a day when the sky was always either almost or completely full of unspun wool. As unspun wool does, it would tangle and catch; the pure white of sunlit clouds always rolled up into the dark greys eventually. All of this, and only a countable amount of raindrops.

March 9th

We report: no sharp edges on the clouds today, nothing ever very committed or decisive in their movements. We walk alongside a few of them, and it is a leisurely pace. On the way, they repeatedly dissolve and build back up to the same fuzzy shapes, and we never get anywhere.

March 8th

We report a few minutes after the sun has gone down: the sky has been hazy all day long for some reason. Because of the surprisingly low volume of humidity, our expert thinks this could be dust, or sand suspended in the air. As a result, the sun was sunset orange for a long time.

March 7th

We report: it is a real, authentic drizzly morning. It is raining just enough for the surface of the water to break. The air is layered with the smell of wet earth, pond water, and whatever is unique to this specific morning. We see something move underneath the duckweed.

March 6th

We report as the weather turns all the ways it is able to turn. Once again, we got a little too confident in thinking we knew much of anything about the workings of the sky. We think this is always how it goes when the seasons change, and the patterns become unrecognisable.

March 5th

We report: there is some kind of symphony composing itself in the sky this morning. We can almost hear how it goes just by looking at it, abstract sheet music changing from second to second. It is a little colder than the past few days, and the wind feels bracing.

March 4th

We report at the end of a strange, warm, sunny day. We spent it attempting to reconcile our idea of an early March day with the lukewarm wind we felt on our face. As the sun is setting, the crisp humidity is swallowing half of the thermometer in one fell swoop.

March 3rd

We report: come March, the moon starts moving out of range of our window, and it becomes a bit more difficult to seek it out. Even then, it is impossible to miss the way the sky becomes brighter and brighter every night in its waxing. Tonight, we lean far over the windowsill.

Match 2nd

We report on one of the first few days of meteorological spring: we are slowly getting reacquainted with the intermittent presence of the sun. It is so far quite content to remain at a distance. We look for rays to walk into wherever we can, and they are rare and thin.

March 1st

We report: we are almost late somewhere, and we certainly do not have time to linger, but we found some supercilium clouds in the windy sky. This is an unofficial classification for short-lived, eyebrow-shaped clouds. We take the risk to keep watching them embrace the airflow.

February 28th

We report: the sun is rising earlier still, but we do not feel as exhausted in the morning light as we did a few weeks ago. There are minuscule leaves sprouting from a branch outside of the kitchen window, and we watch them unfurl with disproportionate intensity.

February 27th

We report as we close our eyes: on nights when we have trouble falling asleep, we send our mind to wander amongst the stars. In this state of half-wakefulness, the darkness is more comforting than it is cold, and we find paths to galaxies in places no one will ever reach.

February 26th

We report: we have noticed over the course of our life that rainbows are excellent bookmarks, in the sense that a day featuring a rainbow will stay engraved in our memory for much longer. A day featuring a double rainbow will be remembered for twice as long; twice the bookmarks.

February 25th

We report on a sunny morning: it is almost like the past weeks of continuous rain never even happened. It is surprisingly easy to forget, for a moment, that we have seen all these streets turn into rivers, and all these drains overflow. The sun is still a little low in the sky.

February 24th

We report: we have been walking up the hill, and every time we think the sun has finally set, the steps we take towards the top reveal a little bit more light. We have to imagine that at some point, however, whether we get there or not, the sun will fully disappear.