Ninn Salaün

February 1st

We report big sky shenanigans, all day long, forever. We saw grainy, black-and-white pictures of the clouds on Mars, once. We look at ours and we think we like them better, and we like our blue sky better, but the idea of clouds on a different planet is still mind-blowing.

February 2nd

We report: this is a cloudy day, mostly. There has not been even a little bit of blue sky to spot, so really, this is a very cloudy day. Sometimes though, we look outside and the sun is casting shadows, and we feel the need to squint as light floods the street. Sunny cloudy day.

February 3rd

We report the echoes of solar winds, the stars through the green curtains of an aurora. This is outer space and our atmosphere interacting in an especially visible way; a series of dominoes falling in the exact right way for the atoms in our sky to produce wild colours.

February 4th

We report: Venus's Girdle, soft in its pastel tones but simultaneously vibrant as it tends to be in the winter months. Lately, we have been hearing more birds around sunset. Once again, we live in February, and the sky seems different from all the times we have seen it before.

February 5th

We report some waves made out of clouds today, sculpted in the same manner as ocean waves are, only slower, only more subtle. The ice clouds are still in the blue sky while some of the lower clouds are moving much faster.

February 6th

We report: there are the birds who leave for the winter, and those who come here for the winter, and we think that these are some of those who stay here. Courageous birds that love it so much here that they brave the cold to stay throughout the season. We are very impressed.

February 7th

We report that we have not had many chances to see the moon, lately, but tonight, we catch it just as it begins to wane. It is still very bright through the clouds; the night is illuminated by moon rays, a pale blue light that washes over the world. We can only hear the wind.

February 8th

We report: last night, when we went to sleep, we told ourselves that we would feel better in the morning. As we wake up and step up to the window, we realise that we do feel better. We yawn the way one yawns when no one is around to see it. We can do this today, too.

February 9th

We report about our ongoing collection of clouds; we are wondering about the best way to acquire clouds not of our own. We wonder whether we could ask people to describe the best clouds that they have seen, and whether we would then be able to add them to our collection.

February 10th

We report: it is so windy. Wherever we look, every dead leaf on the ground, every lamppost, every tree is swept up into a fast-paced waltz, swaying this and that side. Inside the house, we can hear the rooftop creak, and outside, howls when the wind goes in between phone lines.

February 11th

We report that we stood around in the dark for a long time. It was cold, and we could not see anything at first. We kept our phone in our pocket to let our eyes get used to the dark. We heard owls, rustling in the grass, and raindrops falling from branches. The stars appeared.

February 12th

We report: a long sunset, one you see coming from the other end of the afternoon. Then, we were outside, we saw the sky bright and the long clouds. The air, dry and crisp. Now, yellow and red slowly climbing up the sky, we are happy to say we were there the whole time.

February 13th

We report a very rare and complex halo display: a 20° halo, a parhelic circle with parhelia, a sun pillar leading up to an upper tangent arc and a parry arc, a 46° halo, and a circumzenithal arc. Very complex indeed, many arcs for a single sun. It is absolutely freezing outside.

February 14th

We report: the weather, as it is, is fine and good for the season. A little bit over the temperature average for this month, certainly, but as we engage in small talk with our expert, we find that we agree on the pleasantness of this weather. We wring rain out of our scarf.

February 15th

We report about the early morning. The sun is still behind the horizon, but the first minutes of light are here; enough yellow to turn the East a little bit green. We turn to look to the West and the sky over there is still a dark blue, all the darker for the sunrise.

February 16th

We report: sunsets feel earned when your windows face the East. Sunrises are earned differently, because we have to get up at the correct time to catch them. Sunsets, though, we see but the castaways of their vibrant colours, watered-down and pale, unless we get out of the house.

February 17th

We report on a morning, nearing noon. Today, we looked at the sky for a while longer than we usually do. We needed to remember a little better; we know the sky is blue, but what is that blue like, exactly? Not a picture, not a painting that begins to touch the blue of the sky.

February 18th

We report: the clouds, none any greyer than the others, but all grey in a different way. And the grey is steeped into the sky, layers bleeding into one another, so as to fade into each other, as to let through only the light that needs to go through. A light, persistent drizzle.

February 19th

We report, in the evening, sitting with our expert as they pointed at Jupiter and Venus in the sky. We looked at their face in the dark, and their voice was hushed though there was no secret in the words they spoke. They talked to us about different skies and constellations.

February 20th

We report, in the evening, sitting with our expert as they pointed at Jupiter and Venus in the sky. We looked at their face in the dark, and their voice was hushed though there was no secret in the words they spoke. They talked to us about different skies and constellations.

February 21st

We report sinewy cirrus today - cirrus yesterday, too, but they soon disappeared above lower clouds that blocked them from our view. Today, the clouds swam away, or dissolved into more of the blue out East, and we were not looking over there anyway. We were looking at the cirrus.

February 22nd

We report: in the car, on a parking lot, facing the ocean. The rain is hitting the windscreen hard, in waves. It is an old car; the wind shakes it and whistles through the small cracks where the doors do not close very well. We watch raindrops run down the windows at an angle.

February 23rd

We report on this blue morning: there is a thin, shimmering layer of frost on the ground. It is still very cold before sunrise, we rub our hands together as our breath comes out of our mouth in small clouds. Our cheeks burn as we walk hurriedly in the chilly wind.

February 24th

We report: it is by doing the same things we do every day that we notice the days getting longer. Today, as we were cooking dinner, the sky remained bright for a long time; every time we looked up from the cutting board, we were surprised to notice the sun barely starting to set.

February 25th

We report in the morning sun and the wind, while the air still feels humid and smells like the night. The sun is too bright today for our sleep-addled brain. During the night, we woke up to the sound of rain several times; now the contrast of this blue sky is jarring.

February 26th

We report: still February for a couple of days more. Today: the cold is still biting our hands when we stay out for more than a few minutes. When the sun hides and comes out and hides again like today, we notice a stark difference in how the wind feels against our skin.

February 27th

We report Mars and the moon, together in the sky after sunset. They will stay close to each other until long after they pass the horizon. Quiet companions from where we stand on Earth. The clouds fold under the wind like grass.

February 28th

We report: after a day of heavy rain, we were startled to see bright pink pour out into the sky. There was a weathervane spinning wildly on the roof of a nearby house; we could see the clouds move across the sky all the better for the fiery sunset colours. The streetlamps lit up.

January 1st

We report, on the first day of the new year, uncertain weather. We stumble into it with a sense that we have been kicked off from the previous year - not very ready, not very awake yet, and the sky is largely overcast but bright enough to be too bright. One step at a time.

January 2nd

We report: on the brink of dawn, asleep in spirit, adrift, dipped in blue light, we roam in darkness. It is a sharp morning by the still water - no wind, brisk dampness permeating the air, we feel it in our lungs. And this scene fades away as time moves on, replaced by another.

January 3rd

We report about being by the sea. This is every time we are here: first, a flat horizon to gaze upon, and then, the white noise that is constantly present. We wonder if the waves inspired the chase for perpetual movement. The ocean keeps on keeping on, and we come and look at it.

January 4th

We report: no literature to be found about this cloud yet, but we feel that there is much to say. The sight of the azure amidst these drizzly days of January strikes a profound chord within; the presence of this massive boiling cloud only serves to make our heart soar higher.

January 5th

We report a sky teetering on the edge between two types of weather. The sun is coming through and casting sharp shadows in some moments, but at other times, the thin veil that covers the sky thickens, and we suddenly feel cold. The wind is strong.

January 6th

We report to our expert: tonight, when the sky had been engulfed in a dark wave and the stars had fallen to the ground, a black note suspended in the air, you whispered something that was taken by the wind before we could hear it. In this quiet, we had no choice but to let it go.

January 7th

We report: in our dreams, it is always sunset time. We cannot recall a dream in which the sun was high, or one that took place after it disappeared. We sometimes stay with the sunset, watching it as it never ends. Other dreams, we notice how the light is oddly warm.

January 8th

We report: to live with the concept of the sky every single day, to live with the idea of something so big, impossible to encompass or to define more accurately than "this that you see when you look up high enough"; a true wonder that we attempt to contemplate every day.

January 9th

We report of showers on top of showers, following a trail of showers, with more showers trailing behind them. Sometimes, the sky clears out, then just a moment after, clouds gather again, dark and opaque. There is a rhythm to the rain falling in strong bursts. It hails, at times.

January 10th

We report: the sky so dark and low this way, and the horizon so far, the trees bare and tiny in the distance; we wonder whether there might be space enough between the sky and the earth for us to walk. As it is, our face is up in the sky and our feet are down in the frozen earth.

January 11th

We report a frozen sky this January morning. We see, bite by bite, the sun eating a little bit more of the night these days - we notice it, especially on clear mornings and nights, when we can clearly see the sun grab a few more minutes, hovering over the horizon.

January 12th

We report: the briers bordering the path scratched our calves today, even through the fabric of our clothes. On the way home, we could feel the scratches burn. It reminded us of times we fell through brambles when we were younger, and then got back up. The cold numbed the grazes.

January 13th

We report about this time, late in the afternoon when the humidity starts to saturate the atmosphere. Even through the dense clouds, there are faint hints of sunset colours amidst the grey. Blackbirds and sparrows are getting busy while we wait for the rain.

January 14th

We report: we happened to look through the window and stumbled upon some stars shining through the clouds. There is a shower beating down on the roof, but this is a small, specific spot of the night sky that is clear enough for those stars to come through, many and bright.

January 15th

We report, at sunrise: an auspicious time to feel especially alive, to steer from our usual thoughts, and to float in this moment. Here and now, while the wind blows and the sunlight shines upon a cold morning, we feel a longing for something that is just out of sight.

January 16th

We report: the blue of the sky in between frequent showers, vibrant and pure, darker than we remember the sky to be at noon. On the horizon, we can see the heavy grey clouds moving on, and when we turn to look to the other side, we can see a similarly heavy and grey mass advance.

January 17th

We report: the sunshine from behind us, consumed by the mud and the dark clouds that looked darker in this brightness, and the bare trees on the horizon stood out even more too. This day, we got hail and thunder, and we were cold from the moment we opened the front door.

January 18th

We report Jupiter and Saturn at nightfall today; we expect Venus to follow shortly after, although the sky might be overcast by then. It is still too bright for us to be able to see stars, but we know that the Aquarius constellation is right there, rising over the horizon.

January 19th

We report: were it not for the trees on the horizon, the sky and the snowy landscape would be difficult to tell apart. Pink sunrises always look colder to us, like the sun is further away than usual; and this morning also smells and sounds like cold. Sharp, bright, yet muffled.

January 20th

We report, just before sunset: mismatched piles of clouds, rain in higher parts of the atmosphere, but blue everywhere - blue sky, blue clouds. The smell of rain is strong and sweet in the air, and there is a flutter of sparrows chirping, flying in and out of the hedges.

January 21st

We report: a morning removed from the world, fog and frost making even time move sluggishly. Every blade of grass looks brittle, and we wonder if they would snap off immediately, should we touch them. We cannot locate the sun, though we know where it should be.

January 22nd

We report the stars through the trees. The gale is keeping the sky clear (keeping us cold, too), chasing the clouds. This is a freezing night and we cannot walk fast enough, but we also cannot stop looking up at the bright stars.

January 23rd

We report a split in the sky during sunset, the shadows of the clouds projected up high, while the sun is slowly moving further down. This is the same song and dance every day, but played each time differently - our expert thinks that today, the rendition is especially lovely.

January 24th

We report white strands feathering out in the blue sky; cirrus, always so delicate and wispy, ice catching the light in thin layers of silver. Underneath those wind-whipped clouds, an expanse of blue, dark like we had not seen in a few days in this place.

January 25th

We report: the frothing winter sea during high tides; any colder and it would freeze solid, it would seem. There is an icy blue in the waves that unrelentingly crash against the rocky shore. The day stretches under an opaque sky that remains the same throughout.

January 26th

We report a small sliver of the moon, the tiniest blade of bright light piercing through the humid air and the cold, appearing in the midst of dark clouds and the veils of the night. We knew to look for it, and we knew where it would appear, and it made it; a small miracle.

January 27th

We report: copper, sanguine, and purple, crimson light coming through the lowest clouds and just grazing them. There is a glow that colours cheeks, hair, and puddles a deep vermilion here, a cherry red there. Deeper into the sky, we can tell that the clouds are heavy; rain soon.

January 28th

We report a fallstreak hole, or as we like to call it, "that moment when the sky is heavy enough to fall", a big hole in the sky that is very much visible and noticeable. Our expert attempts to explain the subtleties of this phenomenon but we generally think it simply looks cool.

January 29th

We report: now slowly reaching the end of this month, we see all the dark clouds of January starting to pool above us. This very well might result in some precipitations of some kind - rain, or hail, perhaps. The wind is rising as we are zipping up our raincoat.

January 30th

We report that we lost a glove on this snowy path, and we tried to walk back in our earlier steps. It was easy at first, but the snow and the night kept falling steadily; the footsteps disappeared. When we finally came home, though, our expert told us that they had picked it up.

January 31st

We report: the days feel a little bit more like days again, we are happy to notice. The path that the sun draws in the sky is longer, and today, the sky was mostly clear, too. There was a glow, a warmth, and specks of gold in the sunset. We saw something beautiful, just for us.

December 1st

We report: first day of December, and we are still here under the same sky as everybody else, still moving forward even though we sometimes have trouble with directions. The birds are all leaving further South, but we have decided to stay, for now, as the sky keeps darkening.

December 2nd

We report that the cars' windscreens are thoroughly frozen this morning, and we have put on a few more layers as we step outside. The ground sounds crunchy as we walk on it, and it is not light enough to see very well, but some puddles might have frozen over too.

December 3rd

We report, by the sea: tall and frothy waves crashing loudly on the rocky coast, strong winds and high humidity, but for now, also, a bright blue sky. We sit there with the seagulls flying in and out of the water, and the sea seeping in and out of the pebbles.

December 4th

We report: it is around midday, and the fog is slowly but surely rolling off the town. We can see just fine in front of us, but on the edges of our field of vision, the world looks smaller and strangely void of colours. The sun will not go much higher over the horizon today.

December 5th

We report that we stumbled upon the milky way when we were not looking for it; faint at first, and brighter by the second as we keep looking. The street lamps were turned off a bit ago, but we are still adjusting to the darkness. From here it looks like the sky could break open.

December 6th

We report: the clouds were so dark, and as far as we were concerned, we had seen this day's last drops of sunlight. At this moment, the wind picked up and took a few clouds along, revealing glimpses of a stolen sunset amidst the darkness. Soon enough, the gap closed again.

December 7th

We report, after many days of clouds after storm after fog after clouds again, the blue of the sky has not washed away. We look at it as a revelation today, this pure blue that vibrates through the air - almost purple at its bluest, and we feel a spring in our step for the day.

December 8th

We report: not as cold, this day. The clouds, low and heavy in the sky, are making the sound travel differently, and the rain starts falling, silent at first. Big, slow raindrops crash on our face, and the brisk air comes up in steam around us.

December 9th

We report that we had our last full moon of the year last night - not any brighter or bigger than usual, but rather pretty as it came in and out of the clouds. It was too cold for us to sit outside and look at it for very long, but we did it anyway, and now we have a runny nose.

December 10th

We report: today, the sunset seemingly took all afternoon to happen. We looked to the horizon at some point, and saw a whole portion of the sky tinted yellow that remained there for the rest of the day. We are getting close to the winter solstice.

December 11th

We report the sun entrapped, contained in a cloud as we left home and looked up above the roofs. Sheets of sleet fell from the sky today, and the bits of ice on the ground is melting slower than it would if the sun was out. Our expert has skidded across many puddles on our walk.

December 12th

We report: there was a thunderstorm a little bit earlier today, and we were left with this sky in the aftermath. The silence was eerie for a moment, and then a few birds came out, pecking at some branches and looking for bugs. The sky slowly cleared out as the wind rose.

December 13th

We report a winter sunset as the colours bled in and out of the clouds; the blue of the sky, first, became lighter with hints of yellow. And the clouds, from grey and white to yellow and orange, and then red and pink too. We watched the sunlight lazily wash over the sky.

December 14th

We report: there is hardly any hope for us to see the Geminids peak, this year, but the snow is more than enough of a consolation. We took a walk in silence. It did not snow for a very long time, and the layer of white was thin everywhere we went. Still, the country was silent.

December 15th

We report that every day the sky tries to teach us thermodynamics lessons that, quite frankly, go over our head. We have seen these patterns hundreds of times, though never in this specific configuration. Our expert mentions the term "cirrus vertebratus", and we smile and nod.

December 16th

We report: halfway through December, and we remember what winter is like a little bit more - at the price of forgetting what summer was like a little bit more. We see ourselves in the clouds and their perpetual movement. We look forward to forgetting and remembering some more.

December 17th

We report: our expert has made a long trip to come and look at the stars with us tonight. The weather was uncertain for much of the day, quickly alternating from clear skies to rain to snow, even, in the evening. Now, finally, it seems that the conditions are pretty much ideal.

December 18th

We report a freezing night, and a chilly morning now. Even the sky looks cold, blankets over blankets that barely let the dawn through, small embers coming through gaps between the clouds. We take care of putting on extra layers of socks and jumpers and jackets on our way out.

December 19th

We report: just out of a long bout of showers, we wipe the rain from our eyes, yet the clouds still look blurry. They have, we can only assume, dissolved in the absurd quantity of water that the sky has just dropped upon us. We wring out our scarf, now damp and wholly unwearable.

December 20th

We report noon under a heavy sky; walls of rain encircle us in every direction. No rain where we stand yet, but we know we will encounter it wherever we decide to go next. We stay here for a little while longer, enough to lose track of time before we feel the first raindrops.

December 21st

We report: this is the first day of astronomical winter, and it is quietly turning into the longest night of the year. It is early evening, the streets are crowded as people are making their way home, and the sunset eternalises. Our expert stops on a street corner to greet a dog.

December 22nd

We report that from here on out, like every year, the days only get longer. We get a sense of this, even though it is only the day after the solstice. We look out to the sunrise, and we think about the tilted axis of our planet, and the sun, and the cold morning breeze.

December 23rd

We report cirrus in the wind, up, up where the humidity has soared. Cirrus clouds start up so thin and diaphanous, the light comes through so easily - but they will take over the sky like giant hogweed would a forest. We look back up after a while, and the sky is fully opaque.

December 24th

We report: once again, we find ourselves under a murmuration as we walk past a field. We can hear trills and whistles coming from this massive bird cloud waltzing in the winter sky. We think there might be a few hundred of them, all moving together. We stay there for a long time.

December 25th

We report sleet falling for a good portion of the night. We trudge along through the icy sludge that covers most of the ground. We swallow melted snow when we open our mouth to ask directions from our expert. Our expert pulls out a sopping-wet, full-size map from their pocket.

December 26th

We report: we are making it through the darker days, we are making it through. We remember though, one bright and scorching summer day when the night would not come, for a moment we yearned for the darkest of winter. It is a fleeting thought in front of this burning red sky.

December 27th

We report a day of sunshine. The first time we looked at the sky today, we could not make out any clouds, but even when they appeared, the sun stayed largely unobscured. The few moments when shadows passed in front of it, they faded after just a blink of an eye. Sun in our eyes.

December 28th

We report, in a different place from the places where we usually go, but that is also not so dissimilar from places where we have gone before, it is snowing. It is windy, and the snowflakes fly by fast. The clouds look thick, but there is a lot of light piercing through them.

December 29th

We report: time contracts and dilates in imperceptible ways - at least, we do not perceive them. There is a debate about whether time goes by faster or slower as one grows older, but in our opinion, it is both. We feel life go by incredibly fast, but twilight is infinitely slow.

December 30th

We report that we are reaching the end of December, and we look for light wherever we can, still. Above the clouds, maybe, light survives a little bit longer than everywhere else, rich and glowing and it sticks to our skin. We may start parting with this year already.

December 31st

We report: here we are again, having achieved the tally of the many days of this year.  We have lived through each of them, sunrises and sunsets - have counted stars, seen migrations start. We have been rained on. We have walked and breathed and blinked. Here is to more of this.

November 1st

We report: a lot of cirrus high up in the sky, today. We started out with a light veil, but over time, diaphanous feathers of ice started to accumulate in criss-cross patterns. And then these patterns also changed shapes, and we are now having a hard time identifying any of them.

November 2nd

We report, at the end of the afternoon, after the rain, when the clouds parted: there was a cloud that was pushing toward the sky. The sun was hitting this exact spot that the wind had revealed, a combination of the right place and the right time.

November 3rd

We report: we remember around the beginning of the summer, when this time of the day the sky was bright, and the sun was still high. We do not exactly miss it; it will come back around. But we take a moment to notice the passing of time, marking a notch in our memory for later.

November 4th

We report, here where the sun poured into the horizon a little while ago now, the clouds are catching lights from the city. It has been a humid day, and we know that as long as the city lights are on, the sky will remain this colour.

November 5th

We report: in the morning bright, looking at these clouds, we can almost hear the waves of the ocean they rose from. We are firmly on land, but close enough to the sea that we think every cloud in this sky is of evaporated seawater. We have enough time to try and listen again.

November 6th

We report, after a long rainy night, the sun is rising through the fog on this field. There are raindrops still covering the grass, and the air is very humid on this chilly morning. Though it is not raining anymore, our hair is beginning to curl under our hat.

November 7th

We report: the moon will be full tomorrow around noon, and we do not believe that we will be able to see it then. Right now, the wind is blowing hard as we are expecting a storm - the clouds keep hiding and revealing the moon in different ways. It feels further away than usual.

November 8th

We report a sky calm and clear, once our bleary eyes finally escaped the dazzling sun. We trace the path of the low cirrus over the horizon with our fingers; they separate the sunset gradient into brushstrokes of vibrant colours.

November 9th

We report: storms come and go fast in autumn, bringing heavy rain and strong winds, and leaving incredible clouds on the horizon. We watch them from a distance, and yet we can clearly see the details of their absurd architecture, the way they fold over and under shadows.

November 10th

We report, now, finally, we wear socks to sleep and make sure to close doors and windows so as to keep the warmth in, the cold out. Now, finally, the days seem that much shorter, and finally, the wind reveals a harshness in itself. Now, finally, we found the autumn in November.

November 11th

We report: we saw the moon rise and disappear behind clouds. The sky has washed away. This is it for now. The sun is not going to rise from the sea, the sea is going to swallow this beach, all things will get darker still - the earth will not shake. One more night in our life.

November 12th

We report a hello good morning to the neon colours in the clouds, and thank you very much for reminding us of their existence. We woke up with a certain uncharacteristic cheer that lasted at least long enough to enjoy this sunrise - we did not manage to pass it on to our expert.

November 13th

We report: middle of the afternoon, the sky is low enough that we think those trees might be scraping it. There is a wind that is bringing waves into the clouds as they make their way across the sky at a fast pace. The thermometer has dropped drastically today.

November 14th

We report a flurry of cirrocumulus turning into altocumulus, or a flurry of altocumulus turning into cirrocumulus, either one. We are looking at the sky for the first time in an hour or so, and we are thus facing a mystery only our expert (who is napping) could solve.

November 15th

We report: the night fell a lot quicker than we had anticipated. The sky was bright when we left for a walk, now we are way into the night, seemingly minutes later. We can tell by sound alone that we are absolutely walking on a much muddier path than expected.

November 16th

We report from under this sunset: we are having thoughts about how things get old and scratched and broken over time, but the sky does not have a single scratch. It holds all those colours and those big, heavy clouds, and it gets torn up by the wind, and yet - not a scratch.

November 17th

We report: this again, short but heavy bouts of rain, strong squalls, the weather unstable as it ever could be. In between showers, we watch as the storm cells dash away, full of water still. From a distance, they look even more impressive, roiling and tall in the sunshine.

November 18th

We report from the seaside, today. The weather was very different when we got on our way - cloudy, yes, but there were some bits of blue here and there. Now, though, it looks as though this specific beach has never seen the sun. We can barely see the nearby coast on the horizon.

November 19th

We report: it was not exactly the middle of the night yet, but the sky was completely dark. The clouds had been gathering since before the sunset, and there were no moon or stars to be seen. A flash; the sky, suddenly illuminated as though in broad daylight. Low thunder.

November 20th

We report, from the early morning, the wind is so strong that we are having a hard time breathing through the gusts. We are staggering down the street, whipped around as though we were a flimsy kite in the breeze. We squint between strands of wild hair to see the sun rise.

November 21st

We report: yesterday, when we lay ourselves to sleep, we thought back to this sky. The last image we perceived behind our eyelids were these blue blues, and the bright sun that embraced the clouds. We thought back to how high these clouds all seemed to be, and how small we felt.

November 22nd

We report: we see this tiny little breech in the sky, and we cup it in our hands, we think we could dive into it, we could climb up to it. But there is nothing to it that exists outside of this moment; the clouds move so fast and the holes between them move even faster.

November 23rd

We report that we missed our alarm this morning, left in a hurry after many calls from our expert, and have not dressed with the weather in mind. We sorely regret the sequence of choices that led us to walk around with damp clothes all day. We are extremely relieved to be home.

November 24th

We report: early morning, a red sun is rising through the clouds. We made our expert stay quiet for a long time so that we could appreciate the view. The water vapour is scattering most of the sun's light, except for the longest wavelengths in the colour spectrum - red.

November 25th

We report, today, that after all this time, we really do not know all that much about clouds. We wonder if this cloud will keep its shape for long enough that our expert, in the next town over, will see it the way we saw it. We wonder if this is something we can share with them.

November 26th

We report: this was a sunny morning, and we thought it definitely looked like it would be a sunny day. As the day progressed, though, small white clouds started to agglomerate, and then darken. The wind rose, and a dark grey mass of clouds moved in. It just started raining.

November 27th

We report, long after sunset, the clouds thinned out. This was a particularly crisp night; our windows were fogged up, and through them, the stars looked blurry. We covered up, scarf, hat, and all, and stepped outside. The city lights were out. The stars were sharp and bright.

November 28th

We report: in the face of sunsets, barometers and thermometers and anemometers, astrolabes, hygrometers and wind vanes really cannot do much. How do you measure the impression that colours and lights leave on the spectator of a particularly compelling sunset?

November 29th

We report that we got surprised by the golden hour this afternoon - the way time flows in mid-autumn, short days and sudden temperature drops, every year we think we get used to them but we never do. The air is crisp and laden with humidity. We have got sunshine in our eyelashes.

November 30th

We report: it was cold before these clouds rolled in, but it got colder after they did. "Behold," our expert said, "the first whispers of winter". Perhaps they were right - this past week, the weather has been crisp, but not like now, when our cheeks and ears sting from the cold.

October 1st

We report, while waiting for potential rain or the absence of it: we are attempting to measure any changes in the atmosphere with our human senses alone. As a result, we may say that this is a rather warm day, not much wind to speak of; we do not know what time it is.

October 2nd

We report: October, month of the unknown during which no one can be certain about any single cloud crossing the sky. Disguised as fair weather clouds, some will bloom into storm cells before we know it, and then some skies will be grey the whole day through with not a raindrop.

October 3rd

We report, this night, just past this moon's first quarter: there is a thin veil between us and the sky, but the moon is clearly visible. Through binoculars, its features are blurred, eerie deserted landscapes suspended through a few drops in the mist.

October 4th

We report: this morning, for breakfast, our expert had tea with a splash of milk. As we are looking up now, the way these clouds are expanding is looking just like that splash of milk in that teacup - they are taking their sweet time, though, and the light is changing fast.

October 5th

We report over high water, a windy autumn day. There is nobody out that we can see - it is the middle of the afternoon, yet the light has been dim all day as though dusk could come any minute. Rain is just starting to fall, almost horizontal in the strong winds.

October 6th

We report: though the blue of the sky stayed consistently visible through the morning, the sun stayed hidden behind heavy clouds; and so the air was humid enough that we immediately felt it when we opened the window. We stopped hanging our laundry to dry outside.

October 7th

We report: sometimes, we fear that the only thing that let us look away from the sky is nightfall. Once the clouds fade into solid grey, we suddenly feel the weight of the day on our shoulders. There were many amazing clouds today, and we are sure there will be tomorrow as well.

October 8th

We report: the moon will be full tomorrow. We cannot really tell how much rounder the moon can get from here - about two percent more, our expert says, but this sounds very abstract to us. It is all about the moonlight to us, and how it washes over the world.

October 9th

We report a long night: our expert stopped by our house without any warning, and we stayed up all night listening to their weather-related stories. We brewed a lot of coffee while their vocabulary gradually became more and more obscure. Now, we are just about ready for sleep.

October 10th

We report scattered light across the cirrus that surround the sun, barely visible to the naked eye - but it is a shimmering veil of the whole spectrum of colours, one that we always look for whenever the weather conditions are similar to this day's.

October 11th

We report: these days, as we eat breakfast, we keep noticing a different kind of light in the kitchen. It comes in later in the morning, and it filters in low through the trees in front of the window, casting shadows on the walls. The days still carry a bit of quiet warmth.

October 12th

We report wavy clouds catching the sunrise light. It rained all through the night; the paths are all muddy, and the lingering humidity is bringing about a definite chill in the air. We wear our first scarf of the season.

October 13th

We report, in these autumn evenings, the return of a particular kind of silence. Less of the bugs and less of the sparrows - the wing flaps of some bats, an owl, maybe, but where we are sitting, it is a little bit like it is just us and the stars.

October 14th

We report: there was never a chance that we would go out today. We looked at the rain falling through the window all day long. The sky started clearing up in the afternoon, and the wind picked up. The raindrops were drying slowly on the windowpane, and we were still inside.

October 15th

We report about the blue in the sky that we are holding onto, and we also report about precious rare shapes of clouds that we still collect. We report about waiting for a late train on a breezy day, and raising our collar around our neck as we lean over the railway.

October 16th

We report: a bunch of buildings were blocking our view of the sunset, so we walked for a while until we could see the sky better. By then, the colours had shifted from gold to glowing embers in a pastel sky. We had a brief thought that we would remember this sky for a long time.

October 17th

We report: the clouds stole a few minutes of light from our day as they gathered in the sky, and also a whole night of stars - which let us go to sleep earlier than usual, and so we could not be too resentful over this whole affair. We wish you a peaceful night.

October 18th

We report from one shore or another where we washed up during the night. We do not know where we are, but wherever water meets land is familiar in a way that is difficult to describe. Clouds, too, are the same as everywhere else, dragging curtains of rain to the end of the earth.

October 19th

We report: as October keeps marching on, we have not yet found the cold temperatures we remember of autumn. We find ourselves having a hard time reconciling the shorter days with this odd note of summer lingering in the air. The sky is impossibly blue up there.

October 20th

We report: with the wind we have had today, this sunset looks like a flickering candle that is about to get snuffed out. The clouds pass over the sun in a hurry, smoke escaping from the dying fire on the horizon.

October 21st

We report, as we are settling in for the second night of the peak of the Orionids meteor shower: the stars are noisy tonight, there is a constant chatter in the sky. We have seen a few meteors so far, bright and loud too, for how far as they seem to be. The sky is shaking.

October 22nd

We report: today, as we look at the sky, we do not really wonder what type of cloud we are witnessing. We think not of the exact shades of grey. We are thinking of how the wind feels, and how it might rain soon because it smells like it. We drag our feet as we walk home.

October 23rd

We report: we used to know someone who had a home by the sea and the waves would crash into their garden, humidity would seep into their walls, and storms would make their roof tremble. We remember their small house through which the wind howled as we look upon the choppy sea.

October 24th

We report, at sunset, earlier than yesterday: it happens when we close our eyes and open them back up, and a lot of sunshine that we had not noticed throughout the day suddenly catches on fire. Roar! We feel warm. The sky is beautiful.

October 25th

We report: we wandered throughout the night as the tide went low on the beach. We had never seen the tide retire so far back, and we kept walking until we reached a peninsula. When we got there, the tide started rising again. We have been stuck here ever since.

October 26th

We report, deep into the deep blue, the road shrunk into the single ray of light of our car's headlights. The sky is coming down low on the horizon, and we have not come across another car for a long time. This blue hour is turning dark.

October 27th

We report: there is warmth even in the October wind these days, and electricity has been building up steadily. Here we are now; a morning thunderstorm, less of a show than it would have been at night. Somehow, we feel uneasy as lightning strikes in broad daylight.

October 28th

We report, in this place, the hill has been changing colours. On this bright and warm cloudless day, our expert and we went apple-picking; the effort is making us feel quite hot in the midday sun. There are wasps buzzing around the fallen apples.

October 29th

We report: there is some projection here, but those clouds look melancholy, draped across the sky like torn sails that do not belong to any ships. We move into Earth's own shadow after witnessing every colour of the sunset, and we feel a sense of relief that we caught them all.

October 30th

We report: our expert drove us as far as they could from the city lights. We lay down on wet grass, mindless of the mud and the bugs. We let the stars drag us down to the bed of the river sky, and as the night would have it, we lost our footing, and car keys, in the murky waters.

October 31st

We report from where the afternoons are losing light earlier, now. We were in a hurry, on our way to something important, but suddenly the sky got dark. We looked up and immediately knew rain was about to start falling. Instead of walking faster, we were tempted to stop moving.

September 1st

We report: it has been a long day, somehow. Many things went awry; although, there were also moments of tenderness. We lost some change through a hole in a pocket, but we watched our expert mend it for us when we got back home. We saw the moon before it set.

September 2nd

We report: the air smells like ozone. Our expert tells us this is because downdrafts from the oncoming storm carry ozone down to our level. We just felt a raindrop on our forehead - it will not be long until petrichor joins O3 in the air. We should really be on our way, now.

September 3rd

We report many horizontal lines on the seaside today, which is not unusual, but still remarkable in our opinion. The clouds are very flat, the sea is rather calm and the horizon is perfectly horizontal, but arguably, if the horizon got vertical in any way, we would be very upset.

September 4th

We report: the sun fell behind the horizon while the rain was still falling. There was the sound of the cars on the wet roads, and the breeze in our damp hair, and we could also hear the birds better, now that the shower was mostly over.

September 5th

We report a windy night. Ribbons of clouds are going by fast and it seems like the sky is spinning over our head. The moon set hours ago, the night is dark, and we absolutely cannot tell where we are going. We are completely lost, actually.

September 6th

We report: we have been following the forecast closely, but the forecast has been changing drastically from hour to hour - and it has also been consistently wrong. Here we are, under this changing sky, with the sun and the rain hitting our face at the same time. Autumn is coming.

September 7th

We report: there are the odd days of transition, the not-quite-warm, not-quite-cold days of moving into a new season. Today, though, is all autumn. Rain and churning skies, and the dry summer means many leaves are already on the ground.

September 8th

We report from under the morning clouds, looking at the shadows they project from high in the sky. There was some fog that has just about dissipated now, the air is still humid, and the sun has not yet reached us. We decided that we were going to wait for the sunshine here.

September 9th

We report: this was a small part of the sky. Over the course of an hour, it darkened and lit up, a slow-going firework with no sound. We watched as the fire in the sky burned down to ashes, only remaining as an afterimage on our retinas.

September 10th

We report: it is not about loving the sun, the sun simply is. There is nothing without the sun. But on days when rainbows appear - we can see the light shimmer through the raindrops, the rain falls heavier, and the sun shines brighter (and we do love the sun in this moment).

September 11th

We report fog on the lake. Here and now, we have a hard time imagining a world behind those trees; the fog, it seems, has swallowed it all. We walked through beaded spiderwebs and dewy bushes to get to this quiet place at the end of the world.

September 12th

We report: not so long ago here, the grass had yellowed entirely, become dry, been hopelessly stomped to the ground by the summer heat. But with these days of heavy rain and the ones with intermittent moments of sunshine too, it is like a short spring shoved in between seasons.

September 13th

We report: the sun set early, we think - we were not looking at the time, nor were we most other days but it felt that way. We had plans, but we forgot what they were, and no one asked where we were anyway. After this day of missed moments, though, the clouds were dipped in gold.

September 14th

We report cirrus on a windy day; it is too early in the season for many leaves to fall when there is a particularly strong gust of wind, and it is a warm breeze still. Even as we are looking at those clouds starting to clump together, we know that the wind shall stay kind.

September 15th

We report: we got woken up by a thunderclap and stayed up to watch the storm slowly make its way over the horizon. The timespan between lightning and thunder gradually grew bigger until we fell asleep while trying to count the seconds.

September 16th

We report an unexpectedly cold day after the rather warm weather that we have had all September. We toed the shoreline on the beach, and got our trousers wet up to the knee when the sea got rowdy. We sincerely felt as though the seagulls were having a great laugh at our expense.

September 17th

We report on the way the sunshine smells, and on the way it sticks to our skin. And it was a long day, but we could see the sun the whole time as it narrowly avoided all the clouds until nighttime, and even then, its afterimage stayed so clearly.

September 18th

We report: the long way home suddenly felt a lot shorter today, when we spent it looking up the whole time. There was not much to see at first - the clouds were almost invisible during daytime. As darkness took over, though, they got revealed from the underside, bright and bold.

September 19th

We report, on a day full of electricity, the wind turbines are spinning very fast and steadily, and the sun beaming down on the fields is making the sky look so much darker in comparison. We can still hear some crickets even as the weather keeps getting colder.

September 20th

We report: the clouds got tangled up with the phone lines, stuck in their net for a long time until the wind blew hard enough to tear them away. Throughout the day, we noticed many more clouds go through this predicament.

September 21st

We report that we spent a lot of time with our expert trying to rename the stars - mostly because we could not remember what their names were, but also because it seemed like a great bonding experience. We argued a lot, agreed on a few names, and promptly forgot them.

September 22nd

We report: we can feel the humidity seeping through our clothes, and the trees and the grass and the flowers of late summer all smell louder, clear and bright in the evening air. The wind is creating an ever-changing sunset landscape in the sky.

September 23rd

We report a very rainy day, and there are puddles and there is moss now that it has been raining for a few days. We left a pair of scissors in the grass and it is rusty now, and there is a trail of snail slime on the kitchen window.

September 24th

We report: a plane threaded through this cloud, suspending it on a string of steam in the sun. The sky is slow today, most clouds are barely moving, but the planes are making waves in a matter of seconds - cutting through the silence.

September 25th

We report, this morning, about the many different hours occurring at the same exact moment. We know people in faraway places who are still dreaming, right now, and some who have already lived through many things in their day. The same sun, but different shadows everywhere.

September 26th

We report: the house got drenched in golden light, in a way that had us immediately look out the window. The whole sky was lit up, and the world around us was in shades that we had never seen before. We stepped outside to take it in. The light changed again after a few minutes.

September 27th

We report the most humid day that we believe we have ever experienced. The rain never stopped, and despite dressing adequately when we got out, we ended up with damp hair and clothing. Our fingers were red and wrinkled, and we carried the smell of rain on us for hours.

September 28th

We report: in this place, the season changed overnight. We went to sleep after a warm day, and found some frost on the grass early in the morning the day after. Summer left and Autumn settled in for good. We noticed different colours in the trees, the air smelled different.

September 29th

We report, in the backseat of our expert's car, we fell asleep to the sound of the radio. When we woke up, the once-white clouds were ink blots in the dark sky, but the radio was still droning on, and there was still a ways to go.

September 30th

We report: today, there was a lot to think about, and some of the thoughts had quite some weight - the ruckus they were causing in our mind got to be tiring. It was there, in the cold, humid air, that there was a lightness to be found, somehow. We knew this would be the case.

August 1st

We report, we expected the night to be at its coldest now, but it seems to be just as warm as the day was. We have a fan on, and the window is cracked open (enough that we can hear crickets outside), but it is too hot to sleep. We are counting the blinking satellites in the sky.

August 2nd

 We report altocumulus lenticularis, those stationary clouds that tend to form above mountains and other relief. In a show of the wonderfully complex forces that shape our world, these clouds are responding to turbulence in the air by forming relief of their own.

August 3rd

We report: it looks as though the sun is not willing to set today. It is lying all flat against the horizon (like we lay in our bed this morning when we decided that we were going to sleep in). The sky is still a light blue, the clouds are still bright - this day might never end.

August 4th

We report, these first few days of August, the wind has been bringing us a lull in our summer. Just a little less warm, just a little less dry - short showers in moments least expected. Our expert tells us this happens every summer. We do not remember what summer used to be like.

August 5th

We report: we think the stars have been moved, we are quite certain that there might even be more of them. Sure, our planet "spins", and our sun "revolves" around the center of our galaxy, which apparently explains why we do not always see the same stars, but this is different.

August 6th

We report that when the rain started falling tonight, we stayed close to the windows in order to catch the lightning. Every second on Earth, there are about 44 lightning strikes happening; we were happy enough to catch a few of them through the clouds.

August 7th

We report: about the sky this morning, it was so early and it was already so alive. We were caught by surprise. There was condensation dripping down the windows, the trees were swaying in the wind, and there were birds too; so much going on, and our eyes were only half open.

August 8th

We report, last December, we thought about how arbitrary the end of the year is. We are thinking about it now, with these clouds going by like the credits scrolling up at the end of a movie. This could be the end of the year, and we would be ready to start a new one tomorrow.

August 9th

We report: this is a warm and grey day, and there is more water than oxygen in the air. We stepped outside and immediately started sweating. Still - no rain. The clouds are moving fast, and we think that the sky might even go back to that endless blue in just a few hours.

August 10th

We report for this night: the sky is preparing itself for sleep, painted exactly one shade darker with every minute that passes. Clouds taking over slowly, like curtains getting drawn over an infinity, like the tide coming in. We feel tired enough to be grateful for the dark.

August 11th

We report: there are moments in summer when everything seems just right. There; the day is winding down. The sun is setting, and there is a little bit of a breeze. It smells like warm grass, but it is not so hot anymore. It is almost so perfect that we do not know what to do.

August 12th

We report radiation fog on a calm morning, early for the season. The night was clear and there was almost no wind, so the layers of air in the atmosphere stayed separate - dry in the upper levels, and humid near the ground, where it soon reached its dew point.

August 13th

We report: we have been on a hike the whole day, it is the middle of the afternoon, and the sun is at its zenith. Our expert's hair is all frizzy, surrounding their face like a halo in the sunshine, and their cheeks have gotten rosy from the effort of the walk.

August 14th

We report, before the rain started falling, we watched the clouds come in with a sense of glee. We were not quite sure whether they were bringing rain at first, but then the sky darkened and the clouds thickened, and soon enough, we could barely see through the sheets of rain.

August 15th

We report: the sky has been cloudy at night through the peak of the perseids, and even now it remains so - but we have managed to find a few shooting stars in the space between the clouds. We take deep breaths in the dark to shake the stars behind our eyes.

August 16th

We report, down on the ground where the rain has made pools, the air is a little bit chilly and smells like wet rock, mineral and organic, solid. Up there, the colours are all layered up, sediments made out of ice and sunlight. The rainwater is slowly sinking into the earth.

August 17th

We report: the days of August are still long, and the shadows that the sun casts on these days are still short.  The sky is still full of dust, with the horizon permanently clouded over. But even then, we can feel how summer is now beginning to stretch thinner.

August 18th

We report, in between two dreams (nonsense dreams, foggy images and whispers, barely more than that), the sky is coming alive before the sun has even risen. The blue light that is coming through the window is not enough to make us open our eyes all the way.

August 19th

We report: it is a day for storms, heavy and muggy. Everyone that we have met today has been a little bit antsy, a little bit touchy. No storms yet, so far, although the cloud formation in the sky is enough to make us think something is bound to happen.

August 20th

We report a green flash at sunset. We were not looking to see a green flash today - you do not really plan out these things, you see. It felt like it was already too late for it to happen. We were ready to go home, but we looked back one last time, and that is when we saw it.

August 21st

We report: there have been many showers in the past week, and even some days when the rain would not let up. Today, the sky opened up, and the white sunlight felt a lot brighter than we remembered. Our expert pointed out that "it hasn't been that long!". We told them to be quiet.

August 22nd

We report, from the moon watch: we still have a moon. Everyone may now sleep soundly, search parties may stop looking, babies can stop crying, and the sun can finish setting, for the moon is still shining up there. We are certainly eager for some well-deserved rest.

August 23rd

We report: the wind is coming from a cardinal point that we did not know existed until now, and it is making noises that are akin to some we have heard in scary movies. We think that this means autumn might be on the way, though the day is still warm.

August 24th

We report that we do not fully understand most things, on account of them being numerous and infinitely complex. One thing that we do fully understand, though: in the event of a good sunrise or sunset, it is paramount that we stop and stare for no less than a full minute.

August 25th

We report receiving truly impressive amounts of rain on our face under a sky that was not even that cloudy to begin with. We could swear that there was this one incredibly heavy cloud that would float out of sight, only to come back when the wind turned. We felt targeted, too.

August 26th

We report: the day was warm and bright today - also, we got sunburnt on the nose because we forgot to reapply sunscreen. Just before sunset, though, the air got very humid, and then pretty cold. We noticed that the change in weather did not mean that our nose hurt any less.

August 27th

We report, this morning, we woke up early because we had not closed the window last night. There were moths on the walls, dew on the window frame, and also mosquito bites on our legs. The room was freezing, but bathed in a pink light that kept our spirits high even as we sneezed.

August 28th

We report: this wheat has not been harvested yet; we are not too sure why. Maybe in this place, winter wheat gets harvested later than what we are used to. In the meantime, the field is still but noisy, full of cicadas, and the sky is leaden. The heat in between is crushing.

August 29th

We report: summer is waning, the sun's course is getting lower in the sky every day. We are thinking about when the season began, and we did not want to part with spring - but the feeling is always a little bit more complicated with summer. It is a different type of melancholia.

August 30th

We report, today, our expert told us that cirrus let some solar radiation through, but they keep warm air from rising, which may stop storms from fully forming. No storm in sight though, and this morning, we are raising the collar of our jacket against the wind.

August 31st

We report an erosion in the sky tonight - hard to tell whether the sun was trying to eat at the clouds, or the clouds were latching onto the sun, wrapping themselves around it and swallowing it. If we could tear clouds right down the middle, maybe there would be sunshine there.

July 1st

We report a golden hour that swept over this field, now lingering at the edge of the woods. There are sparrows flying high over the trees, chattering loudly, and over here, the grass is still a little bit warm from the afternoon sun.

July 2nd

We report: this is one of the other ways in which summer gets hot, not from the blazing sun but from sizzling electricity traveling through the clouds. We have never seen lightning strike anything from up close, but we still feel that primordial awe at the flash and thunder.

July 3rd

We report, this evening, as the sky changed quickly and the humidity permeated the air, we heard some rustling in the bushes near us. We turned carefully and saw some deers in the clearing; it seems that we were downwind, because we were able to observe them for a long time.

July 4th

We report: a rising moon crescent, 27% of visibility, five days old. We forgot where we were supposed to look for the moon in the night sky, and we spun around for a while. We are feeling a little bit dizzy, but we found the moon.

July 5th

We report, this summer day, the sun is so bright today, whites out everything else. We stepped out and tried to look at the sky through squinting eyes, and only got a vague idea of what the clouds were like; but then their impression stayed on our retinas wherever we looked.

July 6th

We report: here on this beach, we are thinking about the lofty pursuits of the ocean, nibbling at the sandy coast every day, with infinite patience. We hope to take a little bit of it home whenever we come here.

July 7th

We report the clouds, tonight, the colour of pomegranate, the sky was stained, spilling out. When we turned to our expert to point it out, their eyes and hair reflected the sky; there was a rosy glow on their face. There was a sweet smell in the air, or maybe we imagined it.

July 8th

We report: there was a breeze in the morning that grew ever stronger throughout the day, confusing the clouds into sinuous shapes up in the sky, and swaying the poppies and the bugs down here. Now, the rustling of the grass and the howling of the wind are filling our ears.

July 9th

We report, after this warm, cloudless day: we witnessed a flight of bats overhead as the sky darkened and the temperature slowly dropped. There was the sound of their wings flapping; and then we saw them, a large group leaving for the night, maybe more than a hundred of them.

July 10th

We report: clouds rolling down the mountain, one by one, or so it seems. We are halfway between a drizzle and a mist, down here, and the humidity is carrying the smell of the woods and the moss, and the mineral scent of the mountain.

July 11th

We report, about cirrus uncinus; the cold heights of our atmosphere, where ice clouds form, curl up and rise with the temperature variations of the air. There is a jet stream shaping these cirrus formations with great force and speed. It is a bright summer day, down here.

July 12th

We report: we wonder what hides in the shadows of these burnt clouds, where the sun cannot reach any longer. The day has exhausted its light at last, and we are making our way back home under tall towers of bubbling steam.

July 13th

We report no stars tonight; the moon is peeking in and out from behind the clouds, as though surging from the void. This full moon is dark and quiet, and the night is unusually cold for this time of the year. The grass is damp and the humidity has soaked through our canvas shoes.

July 14th

We report that sometimes, the sun leaves its tendrils suspended in the sky, to dissipate over a long time. Some lingering warmth and some light frozen in the steam. The way we look at it, at least - this is a little bit to last for ages in our mind.

July 15th

We report: mid-July, a day in mid-summer like a drop in the ocean. A long time ago, there were days in summer that seemed untethered. We would wake up late, but the day would be longer than any other day, as though we were conjuring up new hours, inventing time out of thin air.

July 16th

We report, early in the morning, lately: there is a sunspot that moves across our pillow for one full hour, slow and patient, until it reaches our eyes. That is how we wake up, these days. This morning, in particular, the sky seemed so big when we looked through the window.

July 17th

We report: we had a strange dream. We called our expert to tell them about it but by the time they picked up the phone, there were only short bursts of light and colours remaining. We kept talking through dawn in hushed tones and fell back asleep when the birds started singing.

July 18th

We report, as the sky erupts in vibrant colours in the last moments of the day, most of the summer heat is starting to lift from the city. The asphalt is still radiating warmth. The streets smell like brake dust and exhaust fumes. We can feel a light breeze starting to blow.

July 19th

We report: some clouds grow in the sky the way moss takes over a forest. At a slow pace, with purpose; a great enterprise that leads to the creation of an intricate lattice. This will not last though, this weaving will fade back into blue soon - the fate of clouds.

July 20th

We report, above the dark sea, the clouds are weighing heavy and starting to fray at the edges - our expert tells us these are called pannus, or scud clouds. We heard thunder earlier, and we can certainly feel the beginning of a good rain shower.

July 21st

We report: tonight, our expert asked us, "Hey, what's this?" and when we looked at the direction in which they were pointing, we replied, "You mean, the moon?" and they said, "The what, now?". We still have not determined whether this was a joke or not. We are worried it was not.

July 22nd

We report, this morning, in the way the sunlight grazed the clouds on its way down, we felt a little bit of peace. It did not last very long when we walked underneath some trees and got some dew in our eye, but the day went on as it began, slow and easy.

July 23rd

We report: the way it is with thunderstorms, sometimes they appear out of nowhere, and other times they build, and build. Then, we are expecting it to happen at any moment, and we stay tense, and the air feels like it is about to catch on fire; until, finally, lightning strikes.

July 24th

We report: every day spent looking at clouds, we are applying a magnifying glass to life. We lean in closer to the shapes and the colors. We feel a kinship with clouds, and by naming them, we feel as though we are respecting that kinship. Our made-up names for puffs of steam.

July 25th

We report, today, we thought it was yesterday; or rather, we slept the whole day through without realising. When we woke up, the sun had already gone down, and we had not done any of what we had planned. We panicked for a bit, but in the end, the world did not end -  a relief.

July 26th

We report: we remember laying down on the floor of our apartment, with the window wide open (a few flies had come in, not all had come back out). We remember putting on a jazz album; from where we lay, we could see just enough of the sky. The sun was filling our room to the brim.

July 27th

We report from under the sky: it is quite windy down here, and we can tell that it is not any less lively up there. We are trying to understand where the clouds are going, but we have observed a rather interesting dismantling that does not offer any direction in particular.

July 28th

We report news from the dawn: during the night, we managed to convince ourselves that the sun was not going to rise, that this was it. We were quite sad, too. We were mistaken, though; the night is spilling out from the sky. A new day is afoot. We are returning to the world.

July 29th

We report: we have a habit of taking great pains to describe sunsets to our expert - the colours, the shapes of the clouds, how long it took for the last bit of sunshine to fade. Tonight, though, we decided to tell the sunset about our expert, while they sat quietly next to us.

July 30th

We report, in this place, we are taking notice of a distinct lack of rain. The grass has turned brown, except for the spots where lawnmowers cannot reach easily. We are placing high hopes on this single, small white cloud (but we are not ready to take off our sunhat yet).

July 31st

We report: there are heavy curtains of rain slowly moving from West to East over the looming mountains in the distance. The thick layers of clouds above are barely letting any light through. We are facing an early end to this day.

June 1st

We report a late afternoon spent looking at the sunlight crashing against the waves. It is another type of blue out here, not much more tangible than the blue of the sky, no less deep, but its call sounds different.

June 2nd

We report: it is June, now, a foot still in Spring, and the other one already in Summer. There are all sorts of bugs flying around, butterflies and bumblebees zooming past us every time we step outside, and the days are long, long, ending almost as a mere afterthought.

June 3rd

We report a storm, oncoming lightning, and rolling thunder somewhere. It is moving towards us, and there is nothing we can do to predict where lightning will strike exactly, but we have decided that we want no part in this. We are not staying for the rain.

June 4th

We report: before we fall asleep, we always picture something like this, the darkness sweeping in, cold, slow, and quiet. And in our dreams, if we are ever visited by stars, then it is a good night - in the fabric of the night sky, to see pinholes of light, a good night indeed.

June 5th

We report strange days, unpredictable weather. Our expert tells us about high temperatures and cloudless skies, and it rains all day long - and today, there was supposed to be fog in the morning, and showers, and thunder, even. But here we are, this is the cloudiest it got.

June 6th

We report: there were towering clouds here, earlier, taller than all of the buildings of the city piled up on top of one another. Over the course of the afternoon, though, with the wind flowing up and around them: it was like a river polishing pebbles, mountains becoming hills.

June 7th

We report rains heavy enough to drag the clouds down with them, and loud enough that we struggle to make conversation with our expert. There is not much wind; we are pulling the hood of our raincoat low over our head, which is making it hard to look up to the dark skies.

June 8th

We report: parts of the universe that we can only ever see at night (during a clear night, to be perfectly precise), spilled out onto a dark velvet sky, and with a little bit of a breeze, we almost think we can hear some chimes in the deep.

June 9th

We report the kind of windy day when the wind is shearing straight through clouds, losing bits everywhere - even the rain was too scattered to fall properly, one drop here and one drop on the other side of the street. The sky is messy and we cannot seem to make sense of it.

June 10th

We report TONIGHT... Northwest wind 10 to 20 knots easing to 10 knots after midnight. Wind waves 1 to 3 feet subsiding to 1 foot or less after midnight. Southwest swell 5 feet at 10 seconds. Patchy fog on the ground. A slight chance of rain.

June 11th

We report: this was a hot day, the beach's sand burning the sole of our feet with the heat of the high sun. Slowly, though, a few clouds came in from the horizon, and the temperature started dropping. The sky is now heavy with yet-to-fall rain, and the wind is rising.

June 12th

We report a golden afternoon, the scent of warm, dry grass in the air, and a naked sky. There are clouds of dust floating above the paths. We are carrying a bag of apricots with us, and we are looking for a spot where we could sit and share them.

June 13th

We report: it was a rather small hour in the morning still when the sky started to lighten, drops of light spreading through the clouds like watercolours. We were eager to catch a little bit more sleep after sunrise, and we kept dozing off as the birds chirped louder and louder.

June 14th

We report a particular day of summer, one when the sky went through all shades of blue, and the clouds were kind enough to let us see them. Now, we are witnessing the lightest shade of the day, the blue fading away entirely as we take it in.

June 15th

We report: in the long parts of long days, grey clouds that curl at their edges are like moments frozen in time; no wind today. We are wondering if this is it: nothing will ever change again. This is the sky, forever like this, now (and then comes a breeze).

June 16th

We report, on this day of June; we left our laundry to dry outside overnight, and when we retrieved it during the afternoon, it was warm and smelled like sunshine. Our expert got cobwebs in their hair while trying to grab the bedsheets. The clouds kept growing apart.

June 17th

We report: we opened the window to watch the sunset, and the light in the kitchen lured in some moths. It is a calm evening; lately, by the time the sun disappears behind the hills, most people have long been home.

June 18th

We report a few gleams of sunshine, nothing like the blaze that we have had lately but just this, a little bit of golden light raining down through thick layers of clouds. Soon it will rain water again - much needed during this dry season, but we are not forgotten by the sun.

June 19th

We report: a darkness, something of an immanence, most of everything and all of nothing too. During the night, when time stretches and there is no sleep to be found (and no sun), we think we can almost touch a soul in the stars - but perhaps we are simply sleep-deprived.

June 20th

We report a thunderstorm that skirted around the town. We counted the seconds between lightning and thunder on our fingers, trying to do the math to determine how close the storm was, until there was no lightning. Then, the thunder too boiled down to a low rumble in the distance.

June 21st

We report: today is as long of a day as it gets on this hemisphere of our planet (and then, as short of a night, too). We contemplate this fact with the knowledge that it does not change much about our day, but we still think that we can feel it somehow.

June 22nd

We report: we are taking notes on the colour stages of a sunset. We have gone through yellow and orange, so far, and if our previous observations hold any truth, we are heading towards pink and purple. Good, solid colours (no green or cyan, so far, but we are holding out).

June 23rd

We report noctilucent clouds, the highest clouds in Earth's atmosphere. Their altitudes may vary between  76 and 85 km, and our expert tells us that the Kármán line, where space begins, is 100 km above sea level. These clouds are catching the light that we are not seeing anymore.

June 24th

We report: it is morning, though it is hard to tell how high the sun has gotten. There is no wind to speak of; this wall of clouds is closing in on us at a slow pace, and the tide is coming in the same movement. The world is waking up through heavy eyelids.

June 25th

We report a great big sky with cirrus sprawling across the whole of it. The air is light, just a little bit humid from recent rain. Today is colder than the weather we have been having lately (also due to recent rain), something of a last spring day in our summer's beginning.

June 26th

We report: we have been taking evening walks, lately. We have been seeing wheat fields coming into maturity, with crickets chirping between the stems. There is an unmistakable smell that speaks of warm days even as they cool down in the evening, of dry soil and growing grains.

June 27th

We report, last night: all of the lights went out, and for a few minutes, we were in absolute darkness, stumbling on our own feet with every step we took. At some point, though, we started noticing stars, and then we could not stop noticing them, even through the clouds.

June 28th

We report a windy day with frequent showers and braided clouds. We found cover under a leaky gutter pipe and we are trying to stay clear of the rivulets of rainwater that keep splashing our shoulders. The cars seem to be driving into puddles on purpose. This is a good day.

June 29th

We report, today: our expert swore to us that they had seen these clouds before, that they remembered these exact shapes. We argued over the truth of this statement for a long time, but they maintained that they were not lying. The truth will never be known.

June 30th

We report: this was a sleepless night, an unintentional one. We tried going to sleep, but we lay down and our heart felt too heavy, made us sink too far into the bed, and kept us awake. When we finally managed to get back up, the sun was just rising behind blue clouds.

May 1st

We report a rather large cloud made up of countless, much smaller clouds. Come to think of it, perhaps most clouds fit that description, but this one did provoke that line of thought to begin with.

May 2nd

We report: this is one silent ship sailing across the sky, to the East. We see everything in its shadow meet an early night, plunged into obscurity. This was a dry day, rather warm, and the sunset is revealing a sudden humidity in the air which brings about a chill.

May 3rd

We report that we found company along the way today. This is perhaps rude to say as we were already with company (our expert), but we bring our expert with us wherever we go. These birds are all in the process of flying away anyway.

May 4th

We report: we looked out the window, expecting it to be fully night by now, but there was this whole corner of the sky that was still illuminated, between a roof and a tree. We took a moment to appreciate those last minutes of daylight, faint as it was.

May 5th

We report cirrus fibratus, a blur of icy clouds, like a long exposure picture of the flow of a river. The sun is shining bright and has us squinting every time we step outside - it stays high in the sky for a long while lately.

May 6th 

We report: we were here last year, last month, last week, and even yesterday, and it was a different place every time. The sky went through highs and lows, the trees grew, there were waves and then the lake got quiet. And here we are, different but the same.

May 7th

We report, in a storm, a crystallisation of unspoken desires, in the crackles, the sound and light show that we were involuntary witnesses to. We have longed for a climactic moment, something to disrupt the tension, and the Sun has not been helpful in that.

May 8th 

We report: easy clouds, risen all the way from under the ground. All the sweeter for the wind carrying smells of spring, the soil, the trees, and the rain that had fallen in the morning. All the sweeter for how we were here and there was more time to stay here for a little bit.

May 9th

We report that we are just a few days past the peak of the Eta Aquariids, which are associated with Halley's Comet. The comet is not anywhere near enough for us to see it (at least, not for another forty years or so), but we think fondly of it, speeding through the universe.

May 10th 

We report: the sunrise is just about to appear out of the morning fog - as quiet as it looks, the countryside is being quite rambunctious for this dawn. There are birds making all sorts of noises, and the tall grass is rustling as we walk. Also, our expert is talking our ear off.

May 11th

We report a heavy sky, the whole day through, and yet, not a raindrop to be seen. There was that dim light that we usually know means rain; we kept getting close to the windows, squinting at the clouds that looked dense enough to burst. Perhaps it will rain tomorrow.

May 12th

We report: we have been posted on top of a hill since sunrise, tasked with counting every single cloud of the day. This is cloud number one. It is almost stationary. It is small. There does not seem to be any sign of more clouds coming in. We are considering sleeping on the job.

May 13th

We report: we are getting to the time of the year when the sky becomes very, very tall. Maybe there is a little bit of us getting smaller, but mostly, we stand there at the feet of giants, helpless, as they bloom upwards and outwards.

May 14th

We report that the sky is brighter than it has been all day, minutes before nightfall. We could wonder — really, what use is this, what are we going to do with this extra bit of light now? We think, well, nothing much. This is just a sweet thing for this day.

May 15th

We report: below the path we are walking along, there is a pond filled with frogs that we could hear from a long way, loud and clear in the dusk. We can barely see where we are walking at this point, so we are holding on to our expert's shoulder as we try to find our way home.

May 16th

We report: it is early, and cold, and humid, too. We severely misjudged the weather when we left home, and we are dressed all wrong; the wind is picking up, and we think we even got a raindrop in our left eye. This is all fine, though. Nobody is forcing us to be out there, today.

May 17th

We report, today, like most other days, that it is all about colours. It was all about blue, blue, blue all day,  and when we saw the red come in, we thought it would all be about purple tonight. But the colours kept on coming, dense and vibrant; lit up the whole sky.

May 18th

We report: conditions uncertain, the whole sky is torn apart - the wind? Surely not, at least there is very little wind to feel from down here. We are trying to figure out what is happening up there exactly, but the clouds are already melting away, losing their intricate shapes.

May 19th

We report: we lay down in the grass on a hill, fell asleep, and woke up to find the sky in the wrong direction. We are having a hard time making the decision to get up. This seems like a good time to practice our ability to do nothing.

May 20th

We report, that lately, we have been looking to the sky to convince ourselves of the inevitability of change. Or rather, perhaps, of the good that may come out of it. It is good, we think, when the sky is different. And it is good even when we wanted it to stay the same.

May 21st

We report: we lived a whole day through, and when it came to an end, the sky started burning away at the edges. We sat helplessly, watching it turn shades of brown and orange from the fire that ran through from the East to the West.

May 22nd

We report, these days, we look for the moon in the morning, first thing to appear from behind the clouds long before the sun rises. In fact, we could be looking for the moon at three in the morning, but we are not available at three in the morning, because that is when we sleep.

May 23rd

We report: spring has been drier than expected, so far, and as we inch further into it, we relish dark skies and petrichor. From the drizzle to the showers and thunderstorm rains, we look downwards, hoping that the ground will drink it all and keep it there.

May 24th

We report, sometimes, we do get lost in the clouds, and there really is no way home to be found. Frankly, today, there is nowhere we would want to be but lost there, with the last sun rays trying to find a path in and around the clouds.

May 25th

We report: the ferns have gotten tall on the hill, and some of the paths that we walked during the winter are no more, swallowed by the overgrowth. Others have opened in the tall grass, and we went to explore them in the still-long shadows of the morning. There was a lot of dew.

May 26th

We report, though sunsets do not seem to be stretching any longer than usual, the nights seem to take forever to settle, lately. There is a tinge of blue that remains in the dark of the night, and we can clearly see many of the clouds over the stars.

May 27th

We report: today was very bright, maybe no more than the other days, but we certainly noticed how we kept getting sunshine in our eyes. We would close them and see the sun through our eyelids still. We never seemed to find shadows to walk into, followed by sunshine everywhere.

May 28th

We report: we can almost hear colours that are this loud. And this time, when we try to describe them to our expert over the phone, we choose words carefully, and though we inevitably fail to express the subtleties of this colour spectrum, we try again and again.

May 29th

We report a windy day, out in the countryside the smell of flowers is heady and fills every bit of the air that we are breathing. When we walk in the woods, trying to keep our steps light so as to avoid scaring the birds, we hear songs bouncing from one branch to another.

May 30th

We report: low skies and a steel grey, a few showers throughout the day. This is a part of spring that we do not think of as much, but these days when the sun is a rare sight, and the smell of earth lingers in the air feel like a good place to stop and rest for a while.

May 31st

We report walking along a gravel road at nightfall, and though the day was warm - hot even when the sun was high, now that sky is getting dark, the air is getting cold with it. We are walking faster while keeping an eye on the horizon, and there are pebbles lining our shoes now.

April 1st

We report: Spring snow on the way, by the looks of it. Interestingly enough, the weather was a lot colder yesterday. The buds that we have seen on the trees might freeze overnight.

April 2nd

We report that we woke up to the sound of rain on the roof, and we lay there for a long time, listening with our eyes half-closed. Throughout the day, clouds kept rolling out slowly, and the rain stopped and picked up again like an idle conversation. We kept the windows open.

April 3rd

We report: there, half of the sky grasped by the shadows, while the other still belongs to the sunlight. We are going to watch until it is completely dark and the last swath of pink fades into blue.

April 4th

We report: this is the end of the night, and we have made it to this new day with an empty sky - a blank slate, although the sky is never really that. The stars, and the dawn on the horizon, and the blue between, over and under.

April 5th

We report: this is Spring, with all its rain and its muddy paths, and also with all its blue and young leaves and melted snow. We heard a woodpecker earlier, and the sound of the wind in the trees. There is going to be a lot more to see, hear, smell, and taste, this year.

April 6th

We report a storm, a kick, a shake. The wind is about to start blowing very hard, and a lot of rain is about to fall too. We are here and the storm is almost here, and everything is so quiet that it is very loud instead, just a few moments before it all snaps.

April 7th

We report: the days are taking up more space than the nights lately. The sunsets do not come with the same feelings, and the nights do not get as cold. Times are changing.

April 8th

We report cirrus uncinus on almost too bright a day. The Sun is warm, but the wind is chilly, and these two do not even out; it is quite cold indeed. We have not yet determined what kind of month this will be. Maybe, like often, it will have gone by before we do.

April 9th

We report: now is a time when we make an effort to think about the present moment. Surely, yes, tomorrow will be another day, but as far as we are concerned, this one is not quite over yet. We would like to live it to the last second; we are not ready to give up on today.

April 10th

We report, in the mountains: we attempted to track down the place where the first raindrop of the day fell, but it proved to be impossible (too many more came after that first one, it seems). We are now waiting for the last drop, so we can maybe look for that one, too.

April 11th

We report altostratus undulatus, which is a type of altostratus that undulates - this is the gist of our understanding. Our expert tells us that they most often occur in the vicinity of surface inversion, as a consequence of gravity waves.

April 12th

We report: sunshine, good light, a field of blue, some tall, white clouds rising with the air, and us, out there. We are thinking about this, specifically; our body that is so much water would have been clouds, too, at some point - and will be that, again, someday.

April 13th

We report so many stars, and yet each one is special in a different way - not necessarily in a way that we would notice from here, but for someone who knows a little bit more ( our expert, maybe), each of these is part of another world, has a story written in dust and nitrogen.

April 14th

We report: we were waiting out the rain under cover of the trees, and we are still waiting - but the Sun is coming out, and with the way its light is shining through the raindrops, we could wait forevermore, right here.

April 15th

We report: TODAY... SE wind 5 to 15 knots becoming SW. Wind waves 3 to 5 feet subsiding to 1 to 3 feet. Wind swell 2 feet at 8 seconds. Scattered showers and a slight chance of thunderstorms.

We wish you a wonderful day

April 16th

We report: sunrises can be needlessly so beautiful - what about the times when we were not there to watch them? What about the times we missed these bright and gorgeous moments as we were sleeping? Were they just as beautiful? How many more can we afford to miss?

April 17th

We report, as of late, cirrus every day. The days of Spring being what they are, we know that the sky is more subject to change than ever, and yet; on any given day, at some point, we look up, and there are those white wispy trails woven into the blue.

April 18th

We report a bright night (the Moon, when not hidden by clouds, is still full enough to cast shadows) and our expert's sleepy face gazing up at the sky. We can hear the sounds of the train station behind us, different at night, somehow.