We report: no rain, it barely feels humid, and the mammatus pass over us as though following a large storm we never saw. Over our head, the structures that had created the contours of a map slowly disintegrate. Perhaps we intruded on a rehearsal for something larger.
We report: it is early evening, and the sun’s journey through the atmosphere is getting longer and longer. The heat has made us feel sleepy, and we are finding it difficult to care about anything but the movements of the clouds. We are here for hours, in this specific moment.
We report: threads of light are trailing after the sunset, and the dry air is becoming more breathable. It has felt like noon all day, the intensity of the sun, the narrow, sharp shadows. Our expert, remarkably, manages to feel a little cold when a light breeze shakes the wheat.
We report: only the brightest stars remain - of which, all things considered, there are many. Mirfak, Hamal, Aldebaran and Menkar, most of the Auriga constellation, and of course, Mars and Saturn are visible. For some reason, however, we cannot look away from the moon.
We report: we are expecting a clear sky throughout the day, but at sea, early morning, the horizon is nowhere to be found. Through the fog, the light is dull as to make the ocean look solid. We lean over to look more closely, but the surface of the water is utterly impenetrable.
We report: the sky speaks of vanishing patterns, past conditions of humidity and wind shear. They only remain in washed up waves of cirrocumulus. Lately, we find it difficult to interpret the movements of the clouds as we usually would. Signs of change instead induce stillness.
We report: summer heather is blooming on the outskirts of the town. In silent streets, a flock of swifts comes and goes in flurries of shrieks. The cirrus are getting thicker, but also more difficult to see as the sun sets. We feel warmth radiating from the asphalt on our ankles.
We report: when we get to the shore in the blue hour, the gulls pay us no mind, their shrieks too loud in our morning ears. The sand under our feet is dry, but feels liquid for how cold it is. The sky is opaque, waiting for some pink to bleed through in the next half hour.
We report: as we were walking, the sky ahead of us was a milky white, certainly nothing like rain. We stopped for a sip of water, and finally noticed the clouds pooling behind us. We almost immediately felt a raindrop on our cheek, the wind pushing our hair into our face.
We report: where the river meets the sea, there is something in between mist and a light drizzle. It stays right here, a light blur on the horizon, the air brinier than ever. The ducks are searching the silt for snails and worms. Our expert‘s hair is curling around their face.
We report: feels like late August, yellow grass along the roads, and fair weather clouds sweeping the sky. Our expert finds flowers of early summer in the undergrowth; on the banks of the streams, in the shadows of the willows and the oaks. The afternoon is too long for August.
We report: there was rain for a few hours in the morning, and then it did not get much warmer. Now, at sunset, we can still find beads of water on leaves here and there. It gets a little cold, too, enough for a jacket, but we wait until our expert gets the sniffles to go home.
We report: on the approach of the clouds, we feel weighed down, finding it hard to move. There is a sense that we are seeing something we should not. It gets very windy, warm and dry. Once we are under the storm, and it starts to rain, we cannot make out its contours anymore.
We report: at last, the sky bears tidings of changing weather. Cirrus and cirrocumulus, our expert reminds us, often precede a cold front, perhaps even a squall line. We hold hope for at least a little rain to clear the air; for now, the clouds keep on slowly aggregating.
