March 2024
March 2nd
We report cumulonimbus capillatus incus, one iteration out of many these past few days. It rains, all the time, in a different way every time. The clouds stretch out on all the layers of the atmosphere, blinding white, frayed, watery grey, set, dusty blue, fuzzy, gossamer thin.
March 1st
We report: a blaze, a bright thing scraping the lowest clouds. For all intents and purposes, the sun had set. It had gone past the horizon after a perfectly good sunset, and then had decided it was not content with the effect it had produced. A wild last flash in the night.
March 4th
We report: the moon will not rise for another few hours still, and it is too thin to reflect much light at this point of the cycle, but the clouds are lit as though touched by moonlight. Other than that - pitch black sky, scarce pinholes of stars on the velvet vault.
March 3rd
We report about how we got here at low tide on a sunny day, and then everything changed very quickly. The sea started rising fast, and we had to play tag with it as it licked our heels; then we saw the rain come in, a thick, dense wall, and we knew exactly where it was going.
March 5th
We report about another morning with the sun, and with the wind the wind the wind. We could do with standing still at the moment, but the wind is right behind us, the exact right spot to push us forward. No time to look at the face of today. Maybe tonight we will know it better.
March 7th
We report a small piece of rainbow. How utterly and endlessly wonderful it is, to get the privilege of observing the full spectrum of perceivable colours with our own two eyes, in nature no less. How fascinating it is that we can expect to have this experience in life.
March 6th
We report: spring is to come, once again. We are taking small steps in the liminal space between seasons. The weather pendulum fluctuates wildly, constantly oscillating from winter to spring, and back to winter again. Despite everything, it stirs something in us.
March 11th
We report about the sun cutting through the sky after it got all wrung out - the walk in the rain that got us mud on our knees and up to our elbows, smelling of pennies and petrichor until we got home. Even then, it got caught in our nose, something green, and watery, and deep.
March 8th
We report: a walk in the dark, high humidity, low atmospheric pressure, dew point of 6°C. There is a cat skittering just out of sight, following and running from us all at once. We never see what it looks like exactly, but it waits for us at the edges of the shadows sometimes.
March 9th
We report about a morning we stumbled upon, lost as we were in the night. It seems that we are never ready for those sunrises that are bright and cheery, ones that light up the whole sky like it is some sort of occasion. We feel brittle under the flood of the blustering light.
March 21st
We report about a conspiracy: the clouds are swallowing the sun, curling around it, smothering it as though they could snuff it out if they tried hard enough. We know from experience that this is something the sun will come back from. We still stare with a low level of anxiety.
March 10th
We report: in a corner of the sun where the light leaks out in oily streaks, we found something that we could see with our naked eyes. Hours later, it sticks, persistent, a brazen stroke of odd colours that we are not all that familiar with. The clouds have long gone.
March 12th
We report: we have to watch the stars so that they will not fall, that is our job, we are paid for it - or so our expert says. We do not mind. It is late and our eyes feel very dry, but we could keep watching for the rest of the night, if we are allowed to blink a few times.
March 13th
We report a kind little path to daylight, nothing so bright as to be considered rude in the early morning. We bumped into our expert in the kitchen last night, an apparition glowing in the refrigerator's light. We stayed up after that; the sunrise meets our tired, bleary eyes.
March 14th
We report: in the dip of the curve on the bump in the cycle of daylight, we managed to pinpoint the precise moment when yellow light started to walk into the sky. At the very least, one moment it was not there, and the next, it was. Things of the sky work between intervals.
March 15th
We report about the many blinks lost in the wind, untied shoelaces dipped in puddles, the mangled, blue, sodden clouds. The cars hiss on shiny roads, a sharp white noise that splashed the hems on our trousers. The sun will set soon after a day of hiding (a recipe for insomnia).
March 16th
We report: waxing crescent moon descending, a little bit over a week before the full moon. We almost missed it behind buildings and trees, but when we saw it, the sky was darkening just enough that it stood out. A bright spot among the scattered evening clouds.
March 17th
We report about the saffron light this evening, something that fell over the world with the finality that is granted by sunsets. After a muggy day, the end of the afternoon has come to unravel the clouds, pulling all the threads until blue was visible through the stitches.
March 18th
We report: for this sky, on a day such as this one, we have to wonder whether we are completely clear on the definition of "cloud". Are these clouds blue or white? What counts as "cloud"? And how can we count these clouds? The more we stare, the more confusion arises.
March 19th
We report in the beginning of the afternoon; from our vantage point, we can see the light struggle to make it through the clouds very well. It trickles down sluggishly, caught in pits and ditches of steam. Where the rain falls, way down there, it is dark and opaque.
March 20th
We report: this is Jupiter, right there, bright and lonely. We could pretend that we knew this right off the bat, but it would be wrong. Jupiter has been in our sky for more than a few nights now, and we have pointed and asked "what's this one, then" for most of them.
March 22nd
We report: the fashion of travelling amongst clouds is extremely orderly today, exemplary behaviour we think. They are all, to the best of their ability, arranged in a row, moving at an appropriate, reasonable speed. We can appreciate an effort at reining chaos in (good luck!).
March 23rd - 4 AM
We report about spring thunderstorms, which we had somehow forgotten existed - quite the feat, since our expert mentioned them just as spring arrived. We managed to observe a few lightning bolts, which remained etched onto our retinas until we went back to sleep.
March 23rd - 7 AM
We report: the storm did not last very long in the night, but the air remains saturated with rain. It has made this morning feel colder than any other this past week. The sky is slowly clearing out; many birds about, loud in a way that is only acceptable from birds.
March 23rd - 10 AM
We report about more light in this sky than we remember getting in a long time. We are careening through the month of March, the sky is still holding up, the sun is shining well enough - all of this, frankly, against all odds. We are hoping to keep this going for a little while.
March 23rd - 1 PM
We report: the sky has begun to darken again, and the sunlight has gradually waned. Looking at the bold intensity of the blue sky this morning, we had assumed it would remain unwavering through the day; but the winds have changed, and the air smells different now.
March 23rd - 4 PM
We report in the middle of the afternoon: having solely looked at the cloudier part of the sky for the past couple of hours, it came as a surprise to us that there was a less cloudy part. It revealed itself as a bright yellow light that lit everything on its path on fire.
March 23rd - 7 PM
We report: there has to be a lot of wind for the clouds to be chased in and out like that, and it was windy indeed, today. We witnessed so many different skies; perhaps the wind was the only constant. The sun is now hovering precariously over the horizon, clouds are still moving.
March 23rd - 10 PM
We report: there has to be a lot of wind for the clouds to be chased in and out like that, and it was windy indeed, today. We witnessed so many different skies; perhaps the wind was the only constant. The sun is now hovering precariously over the horizon, clouds are still moving.
March 24th
We report a messy morning, windy enough to make waves in the large puddles on our path. The light is indolent, dragging behind as the rest of the world moves forward. We feel a bit small, a bit sideways, a little upside down; maybe the low clouds feel heavy on our shoulders.
March 25th
We report: it is marshy here, and we are struggling to pick our feet back up every time we put them down. We speak low, but the sound of our steps is louder than our voice anyway. We watch our expert's back through the fog of our breath. The full moon is completely obscured.
March 26th
We report large gashes wide open all over the sky, like two people each grabbed one opposite end and pulled as hard as they could. Like, say, perhaps, a reporter and their expert, hypothetically, if that was something someone could do. Either way, the light is fading quick.
March 27th
We report: a little dip back into winter, these last few days. It is all very well and good to imagine going past a certain point and affirm that "here is the new season", but the reality of the matter is much different. Still, the sun makes valiant efforts to climb ever higher.
March 28th
We report from the inside of a cloud: we can see the mist roll over the grass, heavy and slow in the stillness that the fog invokes. We think we ought to move at the same pace, that we ought to let the fog do what it needs to do so that it may rise at some point.
March 29th
We report: it is the sky, the very same, the one we have known since we were born. It is in the same spot, has not moved from its superior position, is very reliable. It is interesting, then, that it is also so unpredictable and prone to changes. The clouds just turned blue.
March 30th
We report on a slow day: our heavy heart sits in the warmth of this two-tone sunset, tight throat with the sharp, green wind swirling above the pond. We forgot the bird names we learned last spring, but they are all here tonight, scratching the mirror of water when they fly low.
March 31st
We report: March coming to an end in loud bursts of storms and blue skies all the same. It is a month that exists to give way to something different, to contain change. We have a hope that there is more after this, before all of our pieces get scattered in the wind.