We report: the loudest nights are upon us. The frogs, the cicadas, the bats, and the odd owl are all working together to drown out the mosquitoes, for which we are thankful. Near the ground, the humidity cuts through the heat of the days, and a sense of peace washes over us.
We report in the late afternoon: we saw the bewilderment in the eyes of our expert before we saw the funnel cloud for ourselves. It never made it to the ground; there was never a storm, nor even a cumulonimbus in sight. And just as quickly as it had formed, it vanished.
We report: the sky has frozen into the motion of the wind, all the ways across, turbulence and all. This quilt is stitched in sunshine, ice, and time - fragile pieces of fabric, and it is no wonder that it is already starting to unravel. The waves get rowdier among the clouds.
We report on the earliest of mornings of the year: the ruins of the night are coming down in premature warmth. We are already awake, unable to sleep in the summer fever; our expert is still deep in their dreams. The sun is barely above the horizon, cloaked by the clouds.
We report at the height of today’s temperatures: it would appear that these skies cannot bear heat for long before they get overwhelmed — in the same fashion we do. This afternoon, while walking in the sun, we did silently plead for some shade, and it seems we conjured it up.
We report in unpeopled landscapes of the sky continent: the sunshine is travelling through depths of steam, and the little bit that makes it out comes away changed, carrying specks of gold and copper. Midnight draws near when the vision begins to fade from our mind.
We report: this morning, the clouds are crawling as low and as languidly as possible in the sky. The sun rises so early these days, yet it seems that we are taking our sweet time catching up to it. It feels like the bite in the air is setting us back a few weeks in the season.
We report about dissolving cirrocumulus. We find they are transitory; they have the elegance of cirrus, and the chaotic nature of cumulus. Forming at high altitudes, they still contain liquid water. As creatures of contradiction, they do not tend to stick around too long.
We report somewhere between two shades of pink: brand new clouds have been appearing since day break, and most of them have not moved since. Despite the absence of movement up there, it is windy down here. The gulls are endlessly circling the shore, riding the gale.
We report: the storm water lies still in puddles which have grown to pond size in some spots. As we walk around marshy waters, we see clouds rise from the ground, rain and dew from last night taking up their sky journey anew in their evaporation. It smells like more rain ahead.
We report in the nervous energy at the end of a hot afternoon: all the critters are buzzing around, the humidity is cloying, and the sky is scrunching up like it is gearing up for something. Only, when the storm bursts, the thunder booms but once, and then wisps itself away.
We report: here in the undergrowth, the ground is mottled with sun spots, and the sky only appears where the trees are willing to part. We look up only every now and then as we try to watch our step between brambles and stinging nettles, but the cirrus do not appear to move much.
We report while the warmth of the afternoon is dissipating, the mix in temperatures in the air confusing our senses. The smells of early summer are strong in the fading light, grass, warm gravel, and the scent that is indescribable, but unique to this time of the year.
We report: sometime after the moon has set, and before sunrise, the mist over the ocean begins to get thicker. It slowly seizes the starlight, and the waves become harder to discern. We hear the water swirling nearby, and we wonder if we are imagining it getting louder.
