March 5th

We report: there is some kind of symphony composing itself in the sky this morning. We can almost hear how it goes just by looking at it, abstract sheet music changing from second to second. It is a little colder than the past few days, and the wind feels bracing.

March 4th

We report at the end of a strange, warm, sunny day. We spent it attempting to reconcile our idea of an early March day with the lukewarm wind we felt on our face. As the sun is setting, the crisp humidity is swallowing half of the thermometer in one fell swoop.

March 3rd

We report: come March, the moon starts moving out of range of our window, and it becomes a bit more difficult to seek it out. Even then, it is impossible to miss the way the sky becomes brighter and brighter every night in its waxing. Tonight, we lean far over the windowsill.

Match 2nd

We report on one of the first few days of meteorological spring: we are slowly getting reacquainted with the intermittent presence of the sun. It is so far quite content to remain at a distance. We look for rays to walk into wherever we can, and they are rare and thin.

March 1st

We report: we are almost late somewhere, and we certainly do not have time to linger, but we found some supercilium clouds in the windy sky. This is an unofficial classification for short-lived, eyebrow-shaped clouds. We take the risk to keep watching them embrace the airflow.

February 28th

We report: the sun is rising earlier still, but we do not feel as exhausted in the morning light as we did a few weeks ago. There are minuscule leaves sprouting from a branch outside of the kitchen window, and we watch them unfurl with disproportionate intensity.

February 27th

We report as we close our eyes: on nights when we have trouble falling asleep, we send our mind to wander amongst the stars. In this state of half-wakefulness, the darkness is more comforting than it is cold, and we find paths to galaxies in places no one will ever reach.

February 26th

We report: we have noticed over the course of our life that rainbows are excellent bookmarks, in the sense that a day featuring a rainbow will stay engraved in our memory for much longer. A day featuring a double rainbow will be remembered for twice as long; twice the bookmarks.

February 25th

We report on a sunny morning: it is almost like the past weeks of continuous rain never even happened. It is surprisingly easy to forget, for a moment, that we have seen all these streets turn into rivers, and all these drains overflow. The sun is still a little low in the sky.

February 24th

We report: we have been walking up the hill, and every time we think the sun has finally set, the steps we take towards the top reveal a little bit more light. We have to imagine that at some point, however, whether we get there or not, the sun will fully disappear.

February 23rd

We report: it is difficult to get rid of the damp these days, the way it has penetrated everything and everywhere around us. Our expert’s shoes hardly ever get to dry in between days of trodding through puddles and wet grass. It is not quite raining yet, this morning.

February 22nd

We report: this time, we were there as the mammatus were forming, instead of catching them as they were melting back into the sky. It was a single ripple that first caught our eye, and then we watched the clouds carve themselves into the pattern. We started feeling really small.

February 21st

We report: we are counting flowers on our walks. There are dozens of daffodils and primroses, escaping gardens and climbing roundabouts. This afternoon, while the sun is out, the yellow specks in the landscape are the brightest, happiest things we have seen in a while.

February 20th

We report at the end of a day spent formulating thoughts, and organising them, and losing the train of them: we are now appreciating the luxury of letting them all go. The sunset, at the moment, requires no additional thinking from us. Our mind gets filled with orange light.

February 19th

We report: by the road, in the headlights, the birch trees stretch up into the sky like frozen lightning bolts. Not much wind tonight, but it is enough to tear some whines and groans from those skinny branches. We think we see a straggler from the Alpha Centaurid meteor shower.

February 18th

We report on the foreshore, while a spring tide is rising. It is just after the new moon, and because we saw how low the sea retreated, we know we should not linger too long on the shoals if we do not want to get stuck there. We pull our expert from the low tide pools.

February 17th

We report: late afternoon, the wind is dishevelling the clouds. This is one hour of sunshine in the rainiest winter we have ever encountered, which makes it very precious, even as the humidity is still permeating the air.  Even our expert does not say a word about upcoming rain.

February 16th

We report in the dusty, dusty evening. The way this day is waning is through a succession of layers of night. All of them are thin enough that there never is an exact moment when we can declare the conclusion of the day.  Once we make it back home, the dust finally settles.

February 15th

We report: it was dark when we started walking. We cannot help but imagine the places we were as still hidden in the night, with the street lamps still on. Here, in this slice of time, the sun is about to rise, unobscured in its ascent for the first time in many days.

February 14th

We report upon finding the sun in the rain: it makes no rainbow behind our back, but we forgive it easily for that. Later, when it is gone, we miss it, and even later, when it comes back, we are grateful. All throughout, it keeps on raining all the kinds of rain we know.