October 28th

We report: a well of light dances on the water far away. The wind unhurriedly moves the clouds, and the patterns of the shade are predictable. Our expert stirs us towards the sunshine, and we immediately feel the heat high on our cheeks. The seabirds flee on our approach.

October 27th

We report of a sunset that has been over-steeped, whatever sweet taste of it already drowned in the night. We take it, the way we try to take everything we can of the sky. Our expert talks about atmospheric refraction, and the fact that the sun has long set already.

October 26th

We report: the moon is in the sky again, only just dipping into the chilly night before it sets in a few hours. The clouds are spreading out along invisible patterns, like a flock of birds scouring the horizon. The air is redolent with damp wood, and the deep scent of the mire.

October 25th

We report in deep October, standing between two storm cells. The clouds rain well, assiduous in the task, and we are well-rained upon, impressed with the efficiency of the whole apparatus. We longed for this in the summer, so we try to enjoy it to the height of our expectations.

October 24th

We report: the humidity and the wind are working together so that walking out felt like a cold shower. We sucked in a breath and went back in to get a scarf. The cirrus overhead had that perfectly incomprehensible, chaotic quality to them, unraveling and colliding at every turn.

October 23rd

We report on the morning after the storm: we were woken up with hail showers in the night, and the south wind rattled the tiles on the roof in a way we had not heard before. It is still windy, but it is the kind of wind that chases clouds away instead of stirring up a tempest.

October 22nd

We report: during a secret few minutes, late at night (so late it is close to being early), the stars are out. We wonder whether we fell asleep, as it was raining a moment ago, and we know for certain it should be raining again very soon. We spend a long time looking for a cloud.

October 21st

We report as the wind seems intent on accelerating the fall of autumn leaves. We watch them swirl in small eddies. Our expert was looking at the patterns of atmospheric pressure earlier, and we heard them emit a low whistle at the counterclockwise spiral over our area.

October 20th

We report: these clouds are so high up, we drive for miles and miles and are able to watch the wind braid them in the exact same spot in the sky. We call our expert at home, and they see the same clouds; we describe them several times over in different ways to make sure.

October 19th

We report in the aftermath of a rainy day: we had been waiting for a good, long stretch of rain for many days. We watch it go a little too fast, we think. Now the sunset rings out on the glistening asphalt, wrung out clouds still dripping a little, shredded in the wind.

October 18th

We report: our train was running late enough that we thought we might as well walk. We watched the sky darken with the evergreen mid-autumn question of “when did nightfall start coming so soon?” on our mind. Little by little, while we were looking elsewhere, is the answer.

October 17th

We report as the afternoon is beginning to wither away: it was windy when we got here, and our face is still ruddy from it, our hair still out of sorts. Now, the sea is still, and the waves barely stir the pebbles on the shore. We hear the oystercatchers over the quiet.

October 16th

We report: we come across a flower field, and in the mid-October light, it feels odd, a little out of place. There are bumblebees and wasps about, and the flowers are especially fragrant in the sunshine. The yellowing trees in the distance anchor us back in the season.

October 15th

We report in the kind of weather that is not demonstrably cold, but that is felt to be cold because of our state of tiredness. The sun is not yet where we think it should be, and we are not where we ought to be anymore (fast asleep, in our bed). We must do with the disconnect.

October 14th

We report: first light, then second, and third, and the morning is finally beginning to come into existence. There is a light drizzle, we think - we have not set foot outside yet. Leaning on the windowsill, we can smell damp, and other, less describable things of autumn.

October 13th

We report here on these open flat lands: we have not felt wind like this in months, all push and no pull making us stumble over our own feet. The air is dry, not even very cold, all things considered; but the wind is stealing every word that comes out of our mouth.

October 12th

We report: late afternoon by autumn standards, the yellow sun meets yellow leaves. In some places, we see the colours change every day, but on certain trees, the transition seemingly happens overnight. We look up, wary of the numerous mast year chestnuts that fall all around us.

October 11th

We report on this mild October night: if the planes went somewhere nice, the sky forgot where exactly a while ago. The breeze has methodically swept over their paths again and again so that none of them make sense, and the contrails have become new kinds of clouds by now.

October 10th

We report: the dregs of the evening pass us by, quiet, flat sound waves reverberating across the fields. Our expert dropped their keys as they took their hands out of their pockets, and we are now hunched over the ground with our torch lights, looking for a glint in the grass.

October 9th

We report in unmoving dampness: the clouds are low, an opaque mass that has absorbed the entirety of the sky. With the clouds closer to the top of our head, we move around the world a little more gingerly, like we have a duty not to disturb the repose of the sky lake.