May 16th

We report in the not quite bright, but certainly early morning: over the harbour, the sky actually seems to be darkening instead of brightening. We hear the wind growing stronger in the clinking of the sailboat masts, the agitation of the gulls. We can smell nothing but brine.

May 15th

We report: the mist is keeping us close to Earth this morning. Down here in marshy lands, the unknowable, hungry, peaty soil seems to want us whole, engulfing each of our steps. The fog rolls over us in absolute silence. Our eyelids threaten to cede to gravity in semi-darkness.

May 14th

We report while the rain is starting to drown out our conversation with our expert: out on the seafront, there is promise for more of the same. The clouds all seem on the verge of giving, wave after wave of heavy clouds. The millions of raindrops have turned the sea matte.

May 13th

We report: just east of the sun, the light is scattering endlessly, crossing through the spectrum several times over. We live in that space for a moment, somewhere between indigo and cyan, or orange and magenta. The diffraction is still happening on our eyelids when we blink.

May 12th

We report while the last lights of sunset go out: even on such an overcast day, we notice how bright the evenings of mid-spring are. It has rained a lot today, the air smells like a million different things, and the birds are singing louder than ever. The pink lingers in the sky.

May 11th

We report: a night such as this one, when we fell asleep to the sound of beating rain on the roof, we would not have anticipated the moon to be present. As it were, it was there almost through the night, a presence unaffected by the elements, highlighting the rain with its rays.

May 10th

We report under a busy sky: the swifts are flying at eye level, smooth, low arcs to catch pollen beetles and flies. There is warmth suspended in the air, but each gust of wind shakes it; we feel the crisp humidity against our cheeks. Somewhere in the low grass, crickets chirp.

May 9th

We report: so it goes that we find ourselves again staring at the brightest source of light we could possibly find. We do this with the high hopes of finding a halo, or any type of iridescence; we are fully aware that if is there, we will likely not see it with the naked eye.

May 8th

We report in the late evening: it is all a bit much. The wind is strong and blowing from an unusual direction, the clouds are expanding to monstrous proportions, and the light feels apocalyptic in nature. When it starts raining, it seems like an appropriate climax to the sunset.

May 7th

We report: we know the moon is somewhere up there, busy getting rounder, but we can only tell because of how bright this night is. We can just about find our way, with only minimal tripping on roots. It has not rained in a little while here, and it smells like pine and dust.

May 6th

We report rainbow weather: a spring shower is meeting the course of the sun, and it is difficult to see much of anything between the rain and the light in our eyes. The rain is falling harder than we had expected, but the sun is also shining brighter, loud in a different way.

May 5th

We report in the mid-afternoon: the sky is at its bluest, and the sun is at its brightest, yet we feel something cool in the breeze. It has been a warm spring so far, and we now realise how fast we got used to the mild temperatures. We long for the jacket we left in the car.

May 4th

We report: the first few days of May happened like a drawn-out sigh, a spill of warmth and light. Spring is now rolling out at full speed, and we remember now how hungry green can be, crawling onto pavements and walls and trees. The sunset seems a weak attempt at stopping it.

May 3rd

We report: we have seen the slim crescent of the moon during daytime this week, always for a few seconds while we were looking for something else in the sky. To see it glow in the twilight hours moves something in our chest, and we step back to get a better look at it.

May 2nd

We report while we wait for something to happen: everything is pointing to a thunderstorm - the barometer, those clouds that look like cumulonimbus, the swallows brushing the pavement. Most of all, the stillness in the chilly, dank air that raises hairs on the back of our neck.

May 1st

We report: we think there is a layer of the sky breaking into shards, and we can only hope the pieces don't fall on top of our head. As we keep watching, however, they seem to spread out instead, and start forming a single cloud spanning the whole sky. We have nothing to fear.

April 30th

We report: the sunrise is revealing new clouds where we thought there were none, back when the whole sky was a uniform middle blue. Now a breeze starts to round out the clouds, and things are suddenly moving much faster while, as usual, we struggle to muster a single thought.

April 29th

We report in the process of unfurling the darkness: it is night enough that we could not call this a day anymore, but still day enough that calling it a night would feel like pushing it. Although, perhaps night is when we almost slip because it is too dark to see where we walk.

April 28th

We report: the air is a little heavy, and we say something like "what an odd kind of weather" to our expert, and they reply something like "isn't it just". It does not feel like rain, but it is hard to imagine how else the weather could resolve. Dandelion seeds catch in our hair.

April 27th

We report: we see April come to an end, and we feel late, and like we are missing spring, and summer will be here before we know it. Our expert tells us we only have to follow the clouds, because their pace is the only one that counts in the end. Why not, we will give it a try.