December 22nd

We report at dawn, when the weather is about to turn - a sweet, pink sunrise like this, we know something has changed in the atmospheric pressure. This will be the first day during which we will not lose light since June. As usual, we do not see a difference, but we want to.

December 21st

We report: in the very long night before nights start getting shorter, there are more stars than we have seen in some time. In the sharp chill of after midnight, we watch a stray child from the Geminids dash in between Castor and Pollux, and then it is gone for good.

December 20th

We report back from the wettest walk we have had all year. At first, it was a drizzle, and it was a pleasant time. It got progressively heavier, until the rain started hitting our face head on.  We came home with the impression that we had just narrowly avoided drowning.

December 19th

We report: we had thought these clouds might expand into another form, but they seem to be collapsing instead. We have a thought towards the storm chaser we met last year, and we wonder how he deals with the clouds that do not make it to storms, how he fares in the off-season.

December 18th

We report: at this late point in December, it is as though the sun is aware it only has a scarce few evenings left to make the best sunset of the year. And though we have adored every sunset since the beginning of January, we know we will call each one of those our new favourite.

December 17th

We report: in the depths of bog country, the will-o’-the-wisps of distant city lights are keeping the sky three shades above full darkness. This is not enough light to observe the night life we hear, no matter how much we squint. We still think we see things move above the water.

December 16th

We report halfway through the month-long sunset that is December. We go through the days trying out different flavours of endings, and in this continuous fade-out, rain is present on almost each of those days. We weave our way around curtains of water and light.

December 15th

We report: we watch layers of air mingling along gravity waves. We hear a little bit of music in the frequency of the waves; harmonies resonate in the ebbing of the clouds. On the ground, the wind is also drawing tight ripples on puddles, small-scale practice for grander schemes.

December 14th

We report late afternoon: we come out at sunset to look at distant squiggles caught in light. It is cold, and the sun goes quickly, so we are back inside within minutes. It is really good; our cheeks burn, our nose runs, and we are still smiling when we meet eyes in the mirror.

December 13th

We report: the Geminid meteor shower peak has come around again. Like a tired running joke, though the sky was clear, it pulled a blanket onto itself in the evening, fair, understandable, so would we. The stars we see stay still, which is fine. We hope to see them fall next year.

December 12th

We report mid-afternoon, on a hurry between two places. We do not even know whether it is raining or not at this point in time. We look out for the clouds at they pass over our head, but when we think we know their name, the light changes, and they emerge as different creatures.

December 11th

We report: the wind is forming white horses on the open sea. Our expert thinks this is a 4 or a 5 on the Beaufort scale. We like it when our expert brings up scales and numbers, and when they are not quite descriptive enough. The sun skims the sea foam with low, timorous rays.

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.