October 2nd

We report: civil twilight, the sun is just beneath the horizon line. The cloud cover is precipitating nightfall, one drop of ink for the hour to turn blue. It is humid like it should be raining, like a word hanging on the tip of our tongue. We stay past nautical twilight.

October 1st

We report about this crumpled October sky: the light is coming out dim and yellow through the parallel wrinkles. The clouds are painstakingly ironing themselves out with windy strokes. This is one of many of our mornings when the waking up is still around to be done.

September 30th

We report: we do not always know what we are looking for in the sky. Something new, probably, a revelation, or a secret, a shape only we were good enough, fast enough to see. Sometimes, something familiar, a memory or a story that we have heard before. All of it at the same time.

September 29th

We report during a slow burn of a sunset: first, a yellow glow on the horizon, and then the wisps of gold streaking through the sky. By the time we went out to see more, the artefacts of the sun were holding the whole thing together, delicate architecture built over an hour.

September 28th

We report: tonight, after the moon has set, the sky is creosote, peaty depths shimmering with cold stars. Our expert slowly puts their memory to the test - the Pleiades here and Aldebaran there, Menkar in the Cetus constellation, and Capella, brighter than them all in Auriga.

September 27th

We report on a dark morning: we have trouble looking away from the clouds because of how windy it is there. Each minute of moving sky contains a day, with layers of  greys flying over our head at different speeds, an Etch A Sketch resetting faster than we can register.

September 26th

We report: it is a little less hot, for a shorter amount of time, but when the sun is out, it is out. We left our sunglasses in our other jacket - subconsciously, we must have thought autumn meant no sun. We are left helplessly squinting for our trouble. It is a bright day.

September 25th

We report in waning sunshine: a couple of days after the equinox, we experience its lesser-known cousin, the equilux. We thought our expert was making fun of us as they spelled it out. Today, day and night are the same length. We stand here at sunset in a rare moment of balance.

September 24th

We report: we have been watching out for the "V" of migrating wild geese in the evening sky lately. Sure enough, we spot a gaggle crossing the valley tonight, high enough that we cannot hear them. Rubbing our cold hands together, we get a brief appreciation for their mission.

September 23rd

We report as the clouds are falling upwards: we are not sure whether it is raining. We think earlier rain is still dripping from trees, and that is why we keep getting cold drops on our face; even then, the sky looks dark enough for rain. Either way, the wind is pushing us home.

September 22nd

We report: today, the two halves of our planet are receiving the same amount of sunlight. It is quite a large amount of sunlight, if our corner of the world is any indication. Our expert tells us that this is not how the equinox works. The cirrus knit themselves into blankets.

September 21st

We report in the humble beginnings of light: the temperature is not that much lower than it was a few weeks ago, but we feel those degrees of difference under our skin, in the flesh near our bones. The sun is a sleepy eye between the eyelashes of clouds, slowly blinking.

September 20th

We report: it is raining movie rain tonight, like a giant watering can is following us around. We breathe with care, lest we inhale water in the process. We have tucked our hands into our sleeves, to no avail - soon, we get the distinct feeling of being completely drenched.

September 19th

We report in the midst of the frantic agitation of early morning: it was already raining, we were already late, we had already forgotten our keys. We did not need the sun to make a bold statement to have us more frazzled. The rain stops for a brief moment, also distracted.

September 18th

We report: it takes September for calf-deep puddles to form in the middle of the paths we walk. We get around them where we can, and the path gets a little wider every year. In some places, well-meaning strangers have made treacherous bridges out of rotting logs and mossy rocks.

September 17th

We report walking towards the east at sunset: while the days are getting cooler, we are still living that moment of transition when crickets can be heard in the grass. It baffles us every year - our collar zipped up to our chin, and the soft chirps, vestigial crumbs of summer.

September 16th

We report: the way the clouds are rushing through the sky, the stars are constantly blinking in and out of the darkness. At this late hour, with the wind in our eyes, they are all meteors to us. Our expert finds their torchlight, but it is weak and yellow, almost out of battery.

September 15th

We report from the doorstep, while towel-drying our hair: we left the door open when we came in. The rain is falling straight down, crackling static scrambling the horizon. Our eyes keep shifting back to the spot of sunshine in the distance, wondering if it is raining over there.

September 14th

We report: as it does not rain, the sky is folded and scrunched and stretched into elusive shapes. The wind goes one way, and again the other way; it is all conflict and begrudging compromise in the meetings of the clouds. Our expert has the marks of binoculars around their eyes.

September 13th

We report while the clouds take flight: the wind blows from the southwest following an air pressure drop. It is fierce, loud, setting the sky alight in its wake. We hear whistles as it weaves through the trees, howls when it tries to get under the roof of our home.