We report: over the mountains, the clouds march forever, snagging on the tops, filing them down with the use of rain and time. It is the oldest story that clouds can tell, and it has not ended yet. We do our part by retracing the steps that others have walked before us.
We report: we are headed for a dark, cloudy night under the new moon. The birds are slowly quieting, and the wind is dying down to a whisper. The humidity that has built over the past few days has our head retreating between our shoulders. We get startled by a passing train.
We report: it is windy like it has not been in a long while, and now that all the trees are full of leaves, their rustling sounds like a clamour. The wind shear is streaking through the clouds in a confusing pattern, and the sunshine wavers with the movement of the branches.
We report as we are waking up for the third time this morning: there is a couple of magpies loudly bickering in a tree nearby, in the manner that befits them. The cackling and the strange whirring sounds have been piercing through our dreams every time we fall back asleep.
We report: while the sun was setting, we watched as lights blinked on in the distance. We and everyone else trying to prolong the day, stretch it a little further, though the light was gone. We tried to hold off on our own lights til our eyes stung from squinting in the dark.
We report while the evening is beginning to burn the afternoon light away: there is unshed rain in the shadows of the sky, and there are motes of dust taking all the sunshine for themselves. It is one of those decisive moments of the day when everything shifts so much faster.
We report: after many tribulations, we are confident that this is planet Earth - what with the sky, the grass, the bearable temperature, and the breathable air. We feel smaller than ever before under these billowing columns of steam. Our expert did not miss their pollen allergy.
We report as the sun rises from a below freezing night: we are certain that we found the right solar system, but we are not so sure about the planet. The sun is tiny and cold, and the sky is strange and empty. Our expert is taking a close look at the dust that covers everything.
We report: we got very, very lost at some point tonight. We took a couple of wrong rights, and certainly could have used a map or two along the way. We now find ourselves very far from home; we shall hope for our own safe return. We only need to find the correct north star.
We report a little while after sunrise, and the clouds are carefully closing in on every last bit of clear sky. Enough of sunshine for today, they tell us, now we shall meet darkness once again. While we listen, we can see the sky opening up on the other side of the horizon.
We report: we are witnessing the formation of the crispest, purest cirrus that we have every seen. Their shapes are full of intent, bold leaps into the heights of the troposphere. As they keep developing, we almost think we hear a sharp, crystalline hiss when they collide.
We report in the not quite bright, but certainly early morning: over the harbour, the sky actually seems to be darkening instead of brightening. We hear the wind growing stronger in the clinking of the sailboat masts, the agitation of the gulls. We can smell nothing but brine.
We report: the mist is keeping us close to Earth this morning. Down here in marshy lands, the unknowable, hungry, peaty soil seems to want us whole, engulfing each of our steps. The fog rolls over us in absolute silence. Our eyelids threaten to cede to gravity in semi-darkness.
We report while the rain is starting to drown out our conversation with our expert: out on the seafront, there is promise for more of the same. The clouds all seem on the verge of giving, wave after wave of heavy clouds. The millions of raindrops have turned the sea matte.
We report: just east of the sun, the light is scattering endlessly, crossing through the spectrum several times over. We live in that space for a moment, somewhere between indigo and cyan, or orange and magenta. The diffraction is still happening on our eyelids when we blink.
We report while the last lights of sunset go out: even on such an overcast day, we notice how bright the evenings of mid-spring are. It has rained a lot today, the air smells like a million different things, and the birds are singing louder than ever. The pink lingers in the sky.
We report: a night such as this one, when we fell asleep to the sound of beating rain on the roof, we would not have anticipated the moon to be present. As it were, it was there almost through the night, a presence unaffected by the elements, highlighting the rain with its rays.
We report under a busy sky: the swifts are flying at eye level, smooth, low arcs to catch pollen beetles and flies. There is warmth suspended in the air, but each gust of wind shakes it; we feel the crisp humidity against our cheeks. Somewhere in the low grass, crickets chirp.
