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.

February 13th

We report: the very beginnings of spring are appearing to us more clearly than ever today. It is extremely premature, but we cannot help it; every year, around mid-February, the wind starts carrying a different smell. Our expert says they cannot tell whether that is true.

February 12th

We report on the shore after a busy weather day: there is a truce, somewhat. Though we can see cumulonimbus and other likely rainy episodes float on the horizon, they pass us by in the driest way they are able to. Our expert is looking for stones to skim, and failing to find any.

February 11th

We report: it is late at night, and the wind is just now waking up. We jumped awake to the crash of a dustbin falling to its side, and when we went to see what happened, the street was eerily quiet, as though the gale was feeling guilty about it. It picked right up a bit later.

February 10th

We report during an interlude, as the sky is making quick and important changes to its configuration. There used to be large mammatus there, those round clouds that sometimes accompany storm cells. The wind is now shaking them loose to make room for something new.

February 9th

We report: mid-afternoon, we are now allowed to witness some of the goings-on of the higher parts of the sky. The cirrus are practicing the slowest of dances, unlike the greyer, wetter, faster clouds that we know intimately these days. The sunshine is a little dizzying.

February 8th

We report: one in a few sunsets, the clouds will turn particularly pink for a few minutes after the sun has gone down. We remember that our expert told us this was caused by Rayleigh scattering, but we do not feel like thinking about Rayleigh scattering at the moment.

February 7th

We report: there are a few more birds hanging around at nightfall lately, and it was almost not cold on our way home. We know better than to think this will stick for very long, seeing as it is still early February, and we do not want to leave February unappreciated.

February 6th

We report in the midst of a hail shower: the hailstones are large, and fast, and we are having trouble hearing our expert over how loud they are. It is a while before the sound of thunder registers beneath it all, and we get away from the trees. The storm is coming our way.

February 5th

We report: it is morning, as close to sunny as this day will get. There is a ring around the sun, frozen into the clouds. We have opened the window, and invited the wind inside; it is chilly, and we are shivering a little, but the air feels drier than it has been in months.

February 4th

We report about a few minutes at the end of the afternoon that we almost missed. There is the smallest window of time when sunset light hits a rooftop window just right, and on the best of days, it catches our eye. This is one of these days. Something lifts off our chest.

February 3rd

We report: it is not very late yet, but the cloud cover is such that it is already completely dark. The snow is falling in slow motion, the path of each flake impossible to predict, and we do try. We find in the snowfall the sound of the ocean at night, immense and quiet.

February 2nd

We report under lively skies: the atmospheric pressure forecast maps looked strange this morning. There were high-pressure areas stuck between low-pressure areas, and the patterns of diverging winds that emerged made little sense to us. The resulting weather is adequately odd.

February 1st

We report: our expert has been complaining of a pebble in their shoe for a bit; they take a moment to sort it out when the rain lets up. As we look up, the clouds are moving to the same pace as our breathing, travelling from one end of the sky to the other in great strides.

January 31st

We report on the dawn of the last day of the month. While we were there in January, we got bruises and scratches, we slept late and forgot our to-do lists. We are still here, alive and well, which bodes alright for the rest of the year. The wind is louder than our whole mind.

January 30th

We report: it has been humid all winter, in various ways and at different degrees. Tonight, the air is completely saturated with water, and our breath is fogging up blue against the sky. Our expert finds good numbers, like the high dew point, and the 100% relative humidity.

January 29th

We report during rainy golden hour: we got to a high point expecting a rainbow that is not coming. We can wait a little bit longer if the rain does not get much heavier. In the meantime, we watch a flock of gulls shimmering in the distance, loud even from this far away.

January 28th

We report: this afternoon, most of the clouds are mingling in the distance. This state of things has become a little bit foreign to us over the past few months. We find our mind heading towards spring for a moment, as an experiment, just to test the feel of it.

January 27th

We report: all the rivers left their beds last night, and some fields are now ponds, and the ponds are now lakes. All day long, we have seen and heard water around us in places it should not be, and it rained and hailed again, too. It is late when the clouds part for good.