November 17th

We report: there are more than a few raindrops on our hand when we hold it out. This is a drawn-out dawn, pulled back by the dense rain clouds. The colours have pushed through out of nowhere, vivid and sharp like the icy air. Our expert's red ears are also exceptionally vivid.

November 16th

We report during a nighttime walk: we are discovering the moon through darkness over and over again, until the clouds finally let it appear. As the full moon was yesterday, we are looking for the one percent of shadow that should alter its shape. There is nothing to see here.

November 15th

We report: our umbrella is lying open on the floor by the front door, spilling into indoor puddles. The kettle starts to boil as the rain picks back up; the white noise of it all is scrambling our thoughts. Our expert comes home, and leaves their own wet umbrella by ours.

November 14th

We report: mid-November, in those few hours when the sun is high in the sky, it is akin to a supernova - a mass of light we always gravitate towards. Summer is still trailing in the back of our mind, like a spot of sunshine on the floor, yet we are already midway through autumn.

November 13th

We report too many colours too early; our field of vision is reduced to blurry shapes of searing intensity until our brain is able to process them better. We forget about how vibrant sunrises and sunsets can be in autumn, as though to make up for shorter and dimmer days.

November 12th

We report from the ink spill of after midnight: with the wind and the dark and the rainy afternoon, the chill climbs up from our toes to our ankles. We feel our cold knees scrape against our trousers as we walk. The stars are shivering up there, caught up in smoke and soot.

November 11th

We report: the shape comes into view slowly, a mirage over the trees. From a distance, it is difficult to remember that each dot represents a single bird. Barely a wing out of formation, the single movement of a wave coming in and going out on the fields. It makes sense, somehow.

November 10th

We report in the late morning, almost midday: it feels much earlier than proper time tells us it is. At this time of the season, clocks and watches make very little sense to us, as we watch the low sun make a tentative path through the sky. It still feels warm enough.

November 9th

We report: we keep weights on our feet so we do not float up to the sky. We sometimes take them off at the end of the day - they get to be heavy. Tonight was one such moment, a long lapse of time during which our feet did not touch the ground. We know where we were then.

November 8th

We report as the late afternoon meets the early evening: much is still happening, though it is dark. It is now the time of the year when sparrows gather in trees and bushes to produce as much sound as possible. The strong wind is barely muffling any of their chattering.

November 7th

We report: the morning light is attempting to gather itself in spite of various hurdles. That is how it goes. We are remembering the things that we like so much about autumn - the moodiness, the thrown expectations. The stubborn days when time collapses on itself.

November 6th

We report: the longer we stare at clouds, the less we understand them. We never thought we would solve any mysteries by looking at them for the appropriate amount of time; but nowadays, the very existence of even the most ordinary cloud constitutes an enigma to us.

November 5th

We report: there are ghosts on the horizon, strings of sunlight that are hanging on to the cooling dusk. They slowly pass on - they do, they always do, never have we seen them last the night through. We let our heaviest thoughts get taken by the transience of light.

November 4th

We report as we stare at the pit at the centre of the universe: we can feel ourselves drift this way, slowly and surely. It is north of the north, a spiral of a maelstrom, spinning counter-clockwise towards infinity. We regain our footing with a yawn (the night is young yet).

November 3rd

We report: it was a drizzly day throughout, which is something we can respect. In the early afternoon, we caught sight of some good clouds, and in the distracting moment of euphoria that followed, we slipped on the wet pavement. Our profession is a dangerous one indeed.

November 2nd

We report about an event that has rarely been seen lately: a sunny morning. Over the past month, fog has been our most common guest at the breakfast table. However, the sky was clear when we woke up, and even now that the clouds are coming out, they do not seem to be taking over.

November 1st

We report: half of the field has been flattened by the dew last night. There are memories of odd dreams haunting our mind as we watch Earth's shadow sink down behind the horizon. We try to get a hold of the last wisps of them, but they all end up fading away in the sunshine.

October 31st

We report at a forgotten moment of night: we cannot quite pinpoint the source of our uneasiness. We do not know why exactly we have found ourselves here so late, but our expert assures us there was a reason. They cannot, however, recall what it was. The phone line crackles.

October 30th

We report: we argued about directions with our expert on the way to the beach, and we felt spiteful enough to forgo our raincoat when they told us it would rain. We are now completely sodden. We feel quite silly, but we are still working through the spite. The rain has gotten to our socks.

October 29th

We report as we look straight up: the sky is all liquid today. We watch the billowing columns of clouds spin onto themselves, and the light clears itself a path in a thousand different ways. The colours of the shadows are changing, but the sky only gets bluer, brisk and intense.