September 19th

We report in the midst of the frantic agitation of early morning: it was already raining, we were already late, we had already forgotten our keys. We did not need the sun to make a bold statement to have us more frazzled. The rain stops for a brief moment, also distracted.

September 18th

We report: it takes September for calf-deep puddles to form in the middle of the paths we walk. We get around them where we can, and the path gets a little wider every year. In some places, well-meaning strangers have made treacherous bridges out of rotting logs and mossy rocks.

September 17th

We report walking towards the east at sunset: while the days are getting cooler, we are still living that moment of transition when crickets can be heard in the grass. It baffles us every year - our collar zipped up to our chin, and the soft chirps, vestigial crumbs of summer.

September 16th

We report: the way the clouds are rushing through the sky, the stars are constantly blinking in and out of the darkness. At this late hour, with the wind in our eyes, they are all meteors to us. Our expert finds their torchlight, but it is weak and yellow, almost out of battery.

September 15th

We report from the doorstep, while towel-drying our hair: we left the door open when we came in. The rain is falling straight down, crackling static scrambling the horizon. Our eyes keep shifting back to the spot of sunshine in the distance, wondering if it is raining over there.

September 14th

We report: as it does not rain, the sky is folded and scrunched and stretched into elusive shapes. The wind goes one way, and again the other way; it is all conflict and begrudging compromise in the meetings of the clouds. Our expert has the marks of binoculars around their eyes.

September 13th

We report while the clouds take flight: the wind blows from the southwest following an air pressure drop. It is fierce, loud, setting the sky alight in its wake. We hear whistles as it weaves through the trees, howls when it tries to get under the roof of our home.

September 12th

We report: the clouds know something we do not about the morning. They are in a time zone of their own, living long minutes ahead into the future. It, at least, looks quite bright from what we can tell. We feel inclined to use those minutes for a little more sleep.

September 11th

We report on a long walk: though the sky before us is some shade of clear, we keep looking over our shoulder to the one behind us. It is a silent beast that bites our ankles, its cold breath on the nape of our neck growing closer and closer. There is no escaping this one.

September 10th

We report: the cirrus are waves today, sea foam and salt washing up on the shore of the sky. We hear the backwash in the wind, and the gulls dive into this ocean all the very same. The tide is coming in, and the air is crisp and biting. We dissolve in the eddies of the big blue.

September 9th

We report in the collapse of the evening: it is so windy that we think the clouds are going to come in through the window. We have no room for clouds, so we have no choice but to close it. It was too cold anyway. The birds struggle to choose the direction that they are flying in.

September 8th

We report not too long after sunset: this is what they call heat lightning - it is not heat lightning, it is simply very far away, further than it looks to be. The thunder is dissipating before we are able to hear any of it, much more fickle than the light show on the horizon.

September 7th

We report: it is impossible to predict the weather to come. There is a total absence of signs or hints as to any future precipitation or change in temperature. We are asking questions, and our expert is perplexed. The humongous cloud on the approach is absolutely no help.

September 6th

We report in the last bright moments of the afternoon: a little bit of the summer sun has returned today, that golden warmth that almost seems to come from inside us. Still, the ground is saturated with rain, and in the shade, the humidity is bright and tangible.

September 5th

We report: we think we know where the sun is going to rise from. The stakes are not very high on this bet, and we could simply use a compass to be certain; the fact of the matter is that we would like to see the sun emerge from behind these clouds, and know we were correct.

September 4th

We report: as we were looking for some constellation or the other, the mist slowly started to thicken. The moonlight was catching in it, making it easier to see the movements of the masses of humidity, patterns of smoke in the crisp night air. Our canvas shoes were getting wet.

September 3rd

We report three minutes after it stopped raining, and four minutes before it starts raining: we have never had such a clear understanding of the reason why cumulonimbus incus are called "anvil clouds". As we report, it is still expanding further against the tropopause.

September 2nd

We report: the clouds are shattering, breaking away piece by piece, and we are trying to listen for it. We can already feel the next bout of rain coming in - it is the wind again, impatient, unhappy to let the sky be after a whole summer of steady heat and naked blue.

September 1st

We report about the clouds that grew this tall only so they could get more light than everything, and everyone else. Our expert, shorter than we are, calls them greedy. We think they are practical. It is colder than it has been in months. Eventually, darkness falls everywhere.

August 31st

We report: a lone crow is picking at crabs and seaweed on the beach before a flock of gulls makes its loud appearance. The gale comes to die on the shore, gentle waves that rattle the pebbles. It was much windier at sunset. It seems a long way til sunrise yet.