We report: it is late in the evening, and the sky is bright; the blue there seems as though it could never change. And as we watch the cirrus expand along the jet stream, the swifts ever-present around us, we know the colour fades some, darkens somehow, but we cannot really tell.
We report: later on, when we think back to this moment, we remember how cold and windy it was. The colder it got, the brighter the sunset was. We were standing in the half-empty car park, and the scale of the sky above us made us feel so small, crushed under the light.
We report: high and far out in the sky, maybe at its furthest edge (at least, our concept of such edge), the clouds spall in turbulent currents. There are these eyebrow clouds again. Now that we have learned of their existence, we keep noticing them above hills and valleys.
We report: our expert was tracking the path of the sun through the sky all day long, and even now that it has set, they cannot let it go. The estimation, at the moment, is 3, maybe 4° below the horizon. We hope that we will manage to take them home when it gets fully dark.
We report: a cold front washed over us today, and in its wake, the wind is particularly strong and chilly. Our expert had predicted it, in a slightly esoteric way. As per usual, we took note of the strange words they mentioned, and we are now reading up about isallobaric wind.
We report: mid-afternoon, the sunniest hour of the day, but the wind is not letting the warmth stick. Just a month ago, the trees here were only just starting to grow new leaves, and now the cover of the foliage is thick and dense. Altocumulus ceaselessly rush over our head.
We report: it is starting to get foggy. There is a subtle bloom softening the world, making us wonder if perhaps our eyes are simply tired. The clouds rise above the evening in a different world, in which the sun is brighter than ours. It gets dark at different paces everywhere.
We report: we see the storm approaching on the radar, but the first boom of thunder still startles us in its echo. We count between flash and thunder in order to gauge the distance, and we find it dwindling fast between each strike. We feel the ground rumbling through our heels.
We report: it was sunset last time, and it is sunrise this time, but we think the same jackdaw is following us. It would be bold to call ourselves certain, and nothing looks more like a jackdaw than another jackdaw, but our expert thinks its feathers are ruffled the same way.
We report: the constellations are broken up by the clouds, and we are too close to sleep to make sense of these things anyway. It feels easy to let go, to not wonder about what kind of clouds they are, or the names of the stars. The wind blows from the darkest corner of the sky.
We report: scud clouds are leading ahead of the storm cell while the weather is taking its time deciding where to go next. There was a heavy shower earlier, and it suddenly got cold after a relatively mild morning. Even now, the sun is out, but it has not fully stopped raining.
We report: May is, so far, colder and wetter than April had been, which is something we had hoped for. Smelling leftover rain suspended in the air is an essential experience to our concept of spring. And then anyway, the sun emerges last second, so we may all be content.
We report: we did not take our expert seriously when they said there would be a thunderstorm in the night, because they were wrong the five previous times they did. Now, just woken up from thunder, we think we will have to apologise in the morning. It starts raining more heavily.
We report: we are teetering on the brink of weather change. We got excited a few days ago when we realised the wind was turning, but it turned all the way back into its original direction. Now, we watch the clouds, feel a raindrop, and we think this is a good sky for change.
