February 28th
We report: we have gotten to the coldest of the night, and frost has formed on every surface that can bear it, up to the sky where the clouds hold ice stars in place. In our wandering, we thaw the crystallised air and shove our numb hands deeper into our pockets.
February 27th
We report in the lingering of hazy, drizzly clouds, and sputtering pebbles on the roof. We check once for rain, and once again for hail later, and we are correct each time. Just when we start wondering about the sun, it comes around to lick the underbelly of the sky.
February 26th
We report: it was raining heavily just a few minutes ago, but our coat has already almost fully dried. The warmth of the sun has us in a bit of a daze, especially as we see brand new rain clouds come closer. The wet pavement is glistening, and our shoes are squeaking against it.
February 25th
We report that there is something corrosive about this sunrise; acidic orange clouds, biting winds, the light eating houses one after the other. The back wall of our kitchen is about to be swallowed too, all bright and golden. We have to admit that we are not much for mornings.
February 24th
We report: when the night falls today, it is indisputably a fall indeed. Between one moment and the next, a great extent of darkness comes into existence. It is a volume of nothingness that so completely eclipses the light that we briefly understand the concept of "void".
February 23rd
We report while the clouds are forming cobwebs up there: we saw the first signs of asperitas just a moment ago, and we rushed out not to miss their ephemeral formation. The wind has been going strong since yesterday night; we can see the sky rippling through waves.
February 22nd
We report: today, the sun was bright and high enough in the sky for long enough that it projected some very nice shadows on the grass. In the grass, we found small, scattered wildflowers of yellow and white (we also found a worm). We now have grass stains on our knees.
February 21st
We report with the setting sun behind our back, the thinnest belt of Venus in front of us. Today was mild, not only in temperature, but in much of everything; muted colours, a half-hearted motion towards rain, our expert's hushed tones as they speak about alpenglow.
February 20th
We report: we come to morning with sleep forgotten, and it is a wonder to us that morning is here at all. It appears to us a mysterious land, all blue and still dim, the first gleams of the day stifled by the humidity of late nights. We fall asleep in the space in between.
February 19th
We report about a rapidly evolving situation: the clouds are being folded into themselves like scrunched up balls of papers. As this is happening, it is raining the rain of oncoming storms. The drops are far apart, slow, but heavy and loud. We hear the paper crunch in the sky.
February 18th
We report: the sky of this day saw to it that it remained blue somewhat, though the clouds valiantly came at it again and again, and in numbers too. And all these clouds, after a while, joined forces to become just the one, but we could still find shreds of blue up there.
February 17th
We report at the edge of the morning: we went quite a few days without rain, which is odd for this time and place. Last night, though it was all heard but none of it was seen, it rained almost sunset to sunrise. It shows in the colours, the smells, and the rivers in the gutters.
February 16th
We report: we thought the sky would be clear tonight, and it is, in fact, clear. A rarity in the accuracy of our predictions. For once, we do not try to identify stars and constellations; there are a few too many, and we are a little too interested in going to sleep.
February 15th
We report in the grey afternoon: a pearl appeared, suspended between two curtains of clouds, pale light ringing. It lost its shine when the wind rose. We took the long way home, hoping for another reveal if we waited it out, but we lost track of time and got caught by nightfall.
February 14th
We report: the sky remains broadly clear until around midday, when clouds seem to bloom out of contrails. Somehow, it gets brighter then, the sun catching onto the white of the cirrus. We try to follow the labyrinth of straight lines and crossings with our eyes.
February 13th
We report upon leaving the embrace of sleep: the morning light is almost tangible, something we would try to grab at like trickling tap water. We can feel it brush past us as we walk, a ghostly presence. It floods our eyes and changes them forever, something it does every day.
February 12th
We report: there is a remarkable blend of circumstances contributing to our feeling very cold tonight. Something about a bit of fatigue, the humidity, then the wind, strong enough to exacerbate the humidity, but not strong enough to dispel the humidity. At least, the moon is out.
February 11th
We report: our expert is feeling better, so we went on a walk together this morning. We saw some green, the specific green of new growth, on the tip of a branch. The quality of the light is changing every day, that much more intense and crisp. We keep track of it all.
February 10th
We report: our expert mysteriously took ill a few days ago, and they are still recovering. In the meantime, we take solace in the companionship of a murder of crows. Well, we did earlier, but they are still following us after a couple of hours, and we do not know what to think.
February 9th
We report while storm clouds are gathering: we think the light should not be this bright when it is this late, and the clouds are so heavy. We have learned over the years, however, that our preconceptions about the weather matter very little. It starts raining all at once.