November 28th

We report about the corner of the sky where the sunset happened. Ultimately, the sunset was happening everywhere at that time, but the stratocumulus in this corner were carrying all of the blaze of the day. We cling to the warmth in the light because this is what we do best.

November 27th

We report: it is yet another beast that rose high in the sky at the last possible moment of the day. We could only follow it, and in the cold, we saw it reach across the sky with its strange arms and legs. Our expert looked at it with binoculars, and affirms it was only a cloud.

November 26th

We report as different skies meet into one: somewhere to our right, and to our left alike, something different is happening. We have to choose where to look, which is a common motive of heartbreak we suffer from. Worst of all, there comes a time when we must look away entirely.

November 25th

We report: around noon, the air is dry and the sky is blue like it has never rained before. It feels this way, despite the full gutters, the puddles, the mud we track wherever we go. The sun is as bright as it gets in late November, and the wind is a whistle instead of a howl.

November 24th

We report when the dawn chorus is at its loudest, even over the morning traffic. All edges of the world are still blurry, whether it is from our sleep-filled eyes, or the simple fact of the dim light. It is chilly, and we are not all the way present, but we feel a little warm.

November 23rd

We report: if we find colours in the deep night sky, we have to wonder how many of them are of our imagination, with our mind gone soft and mushy in the darkness. There is rhythm in the pitter patter of rain and dew dripping from foliage, keeping us grounded despite it all.

November 22nd

We report as we are looping our scarf for the second time, and our expert is looking for their gloves. It has been cold for a few days, and we know it still is just from looking through the window. This morning, we noticed the rain from last night had frozen over on windshields.

November 21st

We report: at last, the chaos in the sky accurately represents the chaos of the weather we have been observing lately. We reckon we shall meet maximum entropy at any moment. This, at least, is something we know of November, a device of constant, unexpected changes.

November 20th

We report on a day spent watching clouds rise, and then fall as soon as they stopped soaring, unable to hold their shapes. We feel the loss of each degree of temperature as the evening goes on, our numb face when we talk. Hailstones are gathered in strange places on the ground.

November 19th

We report after sunset, looking out towards the east. The weak glow on the clouds is like someone has turned off the light, but left the door ajar as they went. The nightlight flickers; we get to see the last cloud melt into the night before it starts raining.

November 18th

We report: we felt cold, so we walked fast, and now we feel too warm. This is the way it goes. In the clouds, corroding steel wool is unraveling, scratching up the whole sky across. Whatever bird we see is flying near the ground. We hear hail coming in the distance.

November 17th

We report in the early afternoon, when the sun is still high and white. Something has changed in the atmospheric pressure, after weeks of the same. We do not know the exact correlation between all these warm, cold fronts, anticyclones and depressions… But we know it is cold now.

November 16th

We report: the sunset is on the wind, the colours are moving down its flow. There is sun in our eyes, somehow, even though we are almost certain that it ought to be behind the horizon by now. We watch a paper bag tumble down the street with an odd sense of awe.

November 15th

We report on a day that we stumbled through, tired, our mind stuck somewhere else. Only now, with the stars above our head, do we feel a little awake. Distant houses watch us with their orange eyes, but we do not feel observed, and we find our solace in this darkness.

November 14th

We report: after the fact, we think we drove through the rainbow, or by it, or under it. We cannot recall how it went exactly, although there were a lot of light and colours, and the rain glittered. And then, the rainbow faded so soon anyway, the whole moment felt like a dream.

November 13th

We report in a moment of infinite sky, when the bird that is flying the highest looks like it might be in outer space, a minuscule white dot floating among the highest cirrus of the atmosphere. It makes us take a big breath, knowing that we could not possibly run out of air.

November 12th

We report: some clouds have taken it upon themselves to kickstart the sunset before the rest of the sky. First, the threads of gold that snag onto our eyelashes, and then the rush of humidity that takes hold of the air. We feel sparks and shivers in the crook of our neck.

November 11th

We report in the tall grass that remains when ferns have dried up and wilted. There is a skylark practicing its lilting flight across the meadows, the only moving part of this hushed morning. We follow the desire paths of foxes and boars along the trees, trying to dodge cobwebs.

November 10th

We report: we stepped out of the train station, and the whole sky fell on our head, all at once, and it was hail, too. We considered walking in that weather for a second, but the sky continued on falling, so we decided against it. We stood there, dripping on the tiled floor.

November 9th

We report in the deep afternoon, which is not very deep these days - one step to the side, and the sunset already grabs us by our feet. In the meantime, there is something really good in the clouds today, in their willingness to bloom into the light. We remember why we look up.