We report: just before noon, though the shade is hard to find, it is not yet too hot to step outside. We cheer on the clouds a little, but try as they would, they would not be thick enough to block anything. Later on, the sun seems to come in through the keyhole and mail slot.
We report: we find sleep to be a difficult affair with the heatwaves of late. We toss and turn, nonsensically wishing our pillows had more sides so we could find a cold surface to lay our head on. We dream of insomnia, and wake up to the sun already risen, once more.
We report: the night comes kindly with a breeze, while the ground is still warm to the touch. There is a bit of humidity in the air. During the day, it made the heat more difficult to bear, but in the absence of the sun, we feel thankful for the slight chill it brings.
We report: the sky has come down to meet us, low, low, until we touch the clouds - the clouds touch us. We are aware that it was supposed to be hot, or at least we heard it would be, but we find it difficult to picture while mist is dribbling down our nose and eyelashes.
We report: the light is thick and sluggish today. It laboriously works its way through the air, and stays suspended in the dust. In the afternoon heat, we also find our movements slow and heavy. We feel as though we can tell each ray of light apart as they hit our face.
We report nearing midnight, although it really is early in the night. We are holding a red torch over our expert’s shoulder while they are focusing on their star map. They do not notice the bats flying overhead; all the better, as they are still afraid of most flying things.
We report: the rain is long gone, and the storm is miles and miles away now, which is the only way we can see it in its full expanse. There are still echoes of thunder over the hills; the storm cell is still developing outwards, and we can clearly see the wall of rain beneath.
We report at a time which might as well be the middle of the night to us. We had hoped that we might become a morning person in our lifetime, but this has yet to manifest in any way. Our expert, however, likes mornings enough for the both of us. Radiation fog is nothing to them.
We report: the clouds become ghostly presences as we are gone to the night. In the darkening of the sky, they slowly become invisible. We know there will come a moment when we only know them from the absence of the stars; only the void as a testimony of their existence.
We report: the gale, out of nowhere, blows with all its might, knocks the whole afternoon to its side. We love the grey light of cloudy days, even the misty, drizzly bits. However, with the sky this dark, when the trees glitter in the sunshine this way, everything feels alright.
We report around noon, as it is beginning to get hot: contrails and overhead lines are splitting the sky into shards. We stare at the resulting pattern for too long, and it stays printed over our eyes when we board the train. It is still overlaid there while we look for a seat.
We report: we can tell that it is about to get too cloudy for the sunset to keep its colours. In the west, large clouds are grazing the horizon, getting ever closer to where the sun is busy melting into the earth. And here comes the humidity, too. We have to go home.
We report: we have to wait longer and longer for the sky to get dark enough that the stars will come out. We are not immune to getting sleepy long before any meaningful stargazing can be done. However, clear night skies have been sparse lately, so we make an effort to stay alert.
We report: oddly, we do not hear the sound of rain from where we are. Looking at the advancing curtain of water, we think we should not be able to hear anything else. It seems this is not for us. On the radar, we find ourselves just outside of the radius of precipitation.
We report: this is a virga under the altocumulus, made of sublimating ice crystals. This is precipitation which, unlike the rain we have been seeing lately, will not reach the ground. We think this will not exempt us from the rain - we see darker clouds moving our way.
We report about the wind blowing across this week: some days, a breeze, and the rest of the time, a gale. The wind is chasing a cold front, west-southwest veering southwest at night, counterclockwise, ten knots in the morning and seven more in the afternoon. Always going.
We report: it stops raining at some point in the night, and we do not know exactly when, as we were sleeping then. By the time we wake up, fog has taken over. Our expert is somewhere by those trees, but the fog bank is thick enough that we cannot even guess where exactly.
We report: it is drizzling intermittently, as though we are walking into clouds, and besides that, it is a very bright day. When we look into the distance, we see each field light up one after the other. We hear the rain, the wind, and the birds, and we feel we are here and now.
