July 30th

We report: we met a storm chaser today, and he and our expert chatted about amateur radio licences for a long time. While they were talking, the storm that the storm chaser had come to meet slowly started to unfurl. The clouds' shadows moved as they exchanged call signs.

July 29th

We report under the early afternoon sun: it is hot. We have not been walking in the sunshine for long, but our expert's cheeks are red with the effort. The shade is still hard to find, even in streets where buildings are tall. The breeze that comes later is more than welcome.

July 28th

We report: it does not mean anything, right now, that it could rain any moment, that the sun is setting, that the breach in the clouds is about to close. For a few seconds, we are completely dazzled by the light. The wind keeps pushing. The light fades. It rains.

July 27th

We report in the smallest hours of night: the thunderstorm gets its start right above us, with no preamble. The cumulonimbus formed quietly in the darkness, and the first flash of lightning precedes thunder by only a few seconds. It sounds like sheets of metal banged together.

July 26th

We report: good morning, we are feeling a complicated blend of emotions; the sun is rising, the moon is here, it is raining. Our expert has brought us some tea to go, and our gratitude is overwhelming. We feel cold enough that we expect our breath to turn white.

July 25th

We report something sweet and sour about the sunset. Sitting on a bench, we feel the breeze coming in waves around our neck, but every so often, warm air rises from the ground. We touch our hand to the earth, and the grass is full of sunlight. The candy floss melts in the clouds.

July 24th

We report: this is one we saw while lying on our back. We were determined to keep our mind as empty as possible, and so we made it our task to let our eyes follow it through its journey. It was a slow one. Our neck feels somewhat tender. Our mind is suitably empty.

July 23rd

We report in the dead of night: there are too many stars. It has been weeks since we saw more than a handful at once. The sky has been overcast and opaque most nights. So it is late, we are in the middle of nowhere, and we think we woke up because there are too many stars.

July 22nd

We report: walking in the rain with our head down, we noticed some splashes of blue in puddles. The spots of blue wobbled and split under the weight of the falling raindrops, but we found them again in the next puddle, and when we chanced a look up, they stood out in the grey.

July 21st

We report about how time is different in the sky. Clouds among themselves have no clear expectation of one another. The clear sky waits for nothing. The rain comes whatever the time, and whether we had expected it or not. Some clouds stay forever, other exist within a blink.

July 20th

We report: the clouds have rusted through. They were steel; they were iron blue. They covered every inch of the sky. It rained, shower after shower like it was spring all over again. And then, at the end of the day, the iron clouds oxydised and crumbled down in a russet fire.

July 19th

We report in the purlieus of night: the sky is crowded with clouds that are working hard to stifle the eventide light. It is only just working, though it is even raining quite a bit. The darkness is busy and loud, and the wildlife sounds raise hairs on the back of our neck.

July 18th

We report: it is a windy day. The field is breathing in ripples, dry grass whistling in rhythm. The barn behind us sounds like it is about to collapse, but it has held on until now. The swallows are swaying about the sky like paper planes. It still smells like sunshine, somehow.

July 17th

We report during the hottest hour of the day: the glare of the sun has turned the pavement gummy. We have tried to avoid the worst of it, but the soles of our shoes have gotten tacky, and we feel it with every step. The blue of the sky gets deeper as the light gets starker.

July 16th

We report: since the sun has already vanished from the sky, the remnants of colour there are quickly fading. The daylight is diluting into grey fog, drops in an ocean. Our thoughts etiolate just as much, turning into an ellipsis, so we open a parenthesis. A moon follows the sun.

July 15th

We report from the kitchen window, before dawn: we thought the deep rumbles we heard would have been a truck, slowly driving past our house. Upon closer examination, the sound comes from much further away. We have stayed by the window, listening to the thunder. No lightning.

July 14th

We report: we thought we had lost time when the light came out yellow through the window. The sun was not supposed to set for another hour, but the clouds were thick enough to bend the sunshine that way. We came out to get a better look, and felt a fine mist on our face.

July 13th

We report about this morning, all the ice feathers that are holding the sky together so it may make it through the day. You freeze the sky, if you are afraid that it will fall down. You freeze it, and you keep an eye on it, and perhaps you will keep yourself together as well.

July 12th

We report: our expert has taken us to see the sunset so that they could point out certain elements in the sky. Not for the first time, we try our best to follow, taking notes, asking questions. Not for the first time, we are glad that they are the expert, and we do the reporting.

July 11th

We report at twilight: we have moved through the day with sleep in our eyes. We slept last night, but we carry the insomnia of another night. Now, as the day slows down, we feel even heavier. Even so, we notice the summer wind that pushes blue clouds, and the smell of wild lilac.