We report: time is steadily leaking out of the sky, drop after drop of sunset falling on our face. There is fresh-fallen rain glistening in shallow puddles on the ground, darker clouds to the west, and just enough colour in the sky to last us a few more minutes of day.
We report at the latest of the night, and at the earliest of the morning. Quiet as the ocean seems to be, the wind is big enough to shatter the waves as they come to the shore, scattering clouds of sea foam on the sand. The tide is ebbing, retreating with pieces of the night.
We report: a beast of many arms is scouring through the heavens, losing bits along the way. All throughout the land, many such critters have spawned, all moving towards the same horizon with slow purpose. As a reporter, we feel the need to find out where they are headed.
We report as we are going through the rituals of the late evening : there is a thunderstorm skirting the horizon. Though there is nothing we can see yet, we can definitely hear it, muffled rumbles that have our head on a swivel. We will keep an eye on the path of this storm cell.
We report in windy conditions: spiders are weaving large webs between torn up clouds. The air is still sparkling with humidity from a shower, but these are no rain clouds - only passersby, which we can appreciate. For such big creatures, we are tiny specks of dust on a long path.
We report: the sky is wide open, and the sun is somewhere above our head, too bright for us to try and look for it. Bales of hay have been appearing on top of the hills, and the remaining grass underneath has been left to yellow in the heat. A bit of wind steals our hat.
We report as light moves from the sky to the street lamps: there is a patch of wasteland between two houses where heather blooms in the summer. Our expert took us there tonight, and the crickets could be heard from down the road, and the smell of the dry brush coloured the air.
We report: a lot of the weather lately has been exceptions upon oddities on top of anomalies. There is something comforting, then, in knowing that the moon tonight was to be a waxing gibbous in Scorpio, somewhere around 85% full; and that is what the moon was indeed.
We report in between bouts of rain - we can tell we are in between because while the rain has stopped, we can already feel new drops on our face. The clouds are churning, brewing up a few showers in advance. Though it has been raining all day, the air is still a little warm.
We report: today again, the clouds come close to full bloom. There are developing cells everywhere, pockets of hot steam sculpted into strange shapes that consistently catch our eye. They never seem to reach the next stage of potential storm, however, still subject to gravity.
We report as nightfall grows nearer: the calls of the chimney swifts echo across the pasture, high-pitched chirps that we have been hearing through the whole evening. In the colder months, the belt of Venus would have been visible, but the horizon remains perfectly clear today.
We report: it is an odd reminder that we are still able to feel cold at this moment, but the humidity is not at the service of the heat anymore. It is an abstract hour of the almost morning, the wind is blowing into our eyes and ears, and the clouds are somehow pinned into place.
We report: we fall into July with morning rain, and the sky is a sweet shade of dark overcast. On the open sea that is the undulating clouds, we relish the absence of a horizon line. A lot of the June heat is running down the side of the road, a long overdue respite.
We report while June winds down, still hot, still bright. We try to treasure the light that we only get to enjoy in the weeks surrounding the solstice. It means we often catch ourselves with our chin in our hand, looking through the window until there is nothing left to see.
We report: deep in the night, the thinnest drizzle falls in near silence, almost unseen if it were not for the streetlights. We walk through the clouds, the front of our coat catching most of the water as we disturb its suspension. In the morning, it will all look like dew.
We report mid-morning: this time, there was no waiting around for rain. It looked like it was about to rain, and then it rained, which was a straightforward process that we appreciated for both its simplicity, and the fact that it happened. Now, we would like for it to continue.
We report: noon light above the growing crops, the sun is pressing down on our face, hot and sharp. There is not a lick of a breeze to displace the mass of heat on the ground, yet we see the soil breathe when we watch with intent. And we watch. And the horizon line oscillates.
