October 4th - 6:54 AM
6:54 AM: suddenly, early morning mist swallows the sky. Under the streetlights, it is the coldest it has been all night,
October 4th - 5:01 AM
5:01 AM: we think we are only now getting used to the darkness. Our expert is denying their sleepiness while their eyelids are drooping, and
October 4th - 4:28 AM
4:28 AM: on a wind that is drying our eyes. Each star has its own halo, and our yawns are getting larger and larger. We long for our bed, but
October 4th - 3:41 AM
3:41 AM: we feel lightheaded looking up. We only notice the clouds by the way they block the starlight now, rushing between our fingers
October 4th - 2:04AM
2:04 AM: the stars are a bright cacophony of bells, and as they multiply in the sky,
October 4th
3:17 PM: get stronger, creating a shimmer over the trees. We cannot pinpoint the moment when it gets dark, yet
October 4th - 2:24 PM
2:24 PM: like the rain that is just starting to fall. This light drizzle is still hesitant, it could evaporate within minutes, or
October 4th - 1:12 AM
1:12 AM: while the clouds reluctantly part and immediately knit back together. In the empty darkness of small hours,
October 4th - 1:13 PM
1:13 PM: under the pooling clouds, with the sense that our expert was perhaps correct in their predictions. The air smells
October 3rd
We report while the wind rises: the clouds are getting stretched to the width of the sky, brass and gold from the stormy sunset. In the east, nothing remains of the light already, but the rain is moving in from there, slowly enough to let the day wane in peace.
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.