December 10th

We report at dawn, when the sun is spitting out scoria into the sky before much light can even be seen. It seems a little brave, this kind of sunrise in December, when we know how scarce daylight is these days. It feels like the sun is making promises it cannot keep.

December 9th

We report: all of the wind of these past few weeks has stripped the trees bare here. The ground is all mulch and rotting wood, and we are bound to get a foot stuck in there at some point tonight. With no leaves on the branches, and barely a breeze, the night is eerily quiet.

December 8th

We report as we are waiting for the train. A small murmuration has risen from the trees, and has been drawing arabesques in the sky around us, like a pile of dead leaves scattered on the wind. It has been raining since the morning, a steady pour disguised as a light drizzle.

December 7th

We report: it occurs to us as we are looking up that we might still be dreaming. There is a slight haze to the sky, and the light seems to be coming from very far away, soft around the edges. It is a little too cold for a dream, though, and this is what shakes us out of it.

December 6th

We report somewhere between rain clouds: we have not had to wake up very early to witness the sunrise lately. This is one of the reasons we are able to appreciate the months surrounding the winter solstice. The heavier clouds on the approach turn the sky dark again.

December 5th

We report: standing a ways away from the trees, we hear the birds and their hubbub of a conversation - sparrows we think. Our expert knows not enough about birds to have an opinion on the matter. No rain, but we see clouds floating low under the beams of the streetlights.

December 4th

We report: we caught a movement in the sky, something unfurling and twisting itself in and out of shape. To the naked eye, it is just quick enough to see it happen in real time. We know how these clouds go, but it does not take away from watching this one at its freest.

December 3rd

We report: when the clouds form out of the ether this way, we get the feeling we are being shown the invisible mechanism that holds the sky together. The scales of this mackerel sky are rapidly joining together, and we can feel the air getting more humid. We unfold our raincoat.

December 2nd

We report as our expert is taking note of the altitude of the clouds: it is cold in the wintry sort of way that there is simply not enough sunlight in the day to meaningfully warm up the air anymore. There is a thin bit of radiation fog rising near the ground.

December 1st

We report: for the first few hours of the night, the sky was only an expanse of light-eating, inky black. When the waxing gibbous moon appeared through gauzy clouds, we almost thought a silver sun was rising. We find blue shadows spilled out over our bed, dripping onto the floor.

November 30th

We report in the loose bits of the afternoon, a moment that has neither hour nor minute to place it. Long have we given up our pursuits of forecast for this day - sometime after the second shower, and before the third wisp of rainbow. We let ourselves get carried through it all.

November 29th

We report: in a matter of a handful of minutes, the wind took this contrail and did something odd with it. Our expert is frowning loudly by our side, undoubtedly reviewing their understanding of fluid dynamics in their mind. The steam over their cooling tea makes the same shapes.

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.