February 7th

We report, just a few days into February, in a place where we have not seen the blue of the sky for some time now. So it goes: the day was still and cloudy, foggy even until the early afternoon. Later, the sun was already low, but the whole day changed colour when clouds parted.

February 6th

We report: have you noticed the extra two minutes-something of sunlight we got today? We counted the seconds. And now that it has given all it can, the sky is bruising on the horizon like an overripe fruit. Tomorrow, as we understand it: a little bit more of everything.

February 5th

We report: the smallest, darkest hours upon us, we stay quietquietquiet. Here we are, on our dusty little pebble trying to listen for the sound of our spinning galaxy, experience the music of the spheres for ourselves. Do we perhaps hear it? Like fingers on a glass harmonica.

February 4th

We report, early afternoon, the clouds are making good progress. We are too busy to spend the day staring at the sky, but we are able to take a look every now and then. We do not know if it changes anything, us looking at it, but we feel like it does. We do important work here.

February 3rd

We report in the forest: it is long into winter already, but dead leaves are still lining the ground, some look like they only just fell off the tree. And the smell on the ground is like all things gone and then back, almost sweet, sticks to our clothes so we take it home.

February 2nd

We report about a sunrise through the rain - not much rain, but the sky is a little hazy through it nonetheless. Sure enough though, behind thin, intricate layers of clouds, the sun broods. The mist is coming up from the sea, and we can taste salt on our lips. Good morning.

February 1st

We report: we sat in the biting chill of evening, one breath after the other drawing shadows to us. Odds and ends of this day sank behind the horizon and hungry clouds of night wove a dark tapestry across the sky. Something about the sun being under instead of over everything.

January 31st

We report sometime around sunrise (what sun, rising from where, one might ask on this cloudy morning). The light, weak and mournful, does not weigh enough to reach down the deep blue dark of the ocean. The sea, torn by the wind, is busy frothing and making everything capsize.

January 30th

We report: good news here for all of us in that the sky has not fallen yet. We think about this a lot, perhaps too much. We know the odds are low, or at least about the same as just about anything else. We still worry at times, but it is nice that the sky has not fallen yet.

January 29th

We report, quickly, in a manner that should be brief enough that the sky will not be too completely different when we look back at it; very much happening at this moment. A lot of the light and shadows happening, a lot of the wind, and us and our expert, eyes wide, gaping mouth.

January 28th

We report: it is after nightfall, but there are still many sparrows chattering in the trees. The air is dank out here, and as we walk, we can feel condensation forming on our face, the white puffs of our breath dissolving into the night. Our expert walks a few steps behind us.

January 27th

We report on a winter morning: there was a robin and a few hares, blending in with the snowy grass. The snowflakes were heavy enough that we could hear them fall around us. We could smell the cold air until our nose started running. Grey sludge on the side of salted roads.

January 26th

We report: there is sunshine there is sunshine there is sunshine. It is still January, but it is not just in our head that the Sun is generally higher in the sky. A little bit over nine hours, the day is. Nothing changes, really, yet everything is different, this year again.

January 25th

We report after the rain this afternoon, the evening breeze has shooed away a few of the clouds, the ones that were not tethered to this here place like some others are. In this doing, a little bit of pink light has come and graced our transition to the night. More, please.

January 24th

We report: the moon is virtually full at this point in time, 99% full. It will be officially full tomorrow, sometime soon after sunset, for the first time this year. Its distance from Earth at this exact moment is 398900 kilometres. Illumination: 96,6%. Good night.

January 23rd

We report about the deep-seated desire that we have of knowing the sky. We have always wanted that, understanding and appreciating all the nuances of the sky for what they are. And though everyday we learn more, at some point light shines in a special way, and we know nothing.

January 22nd

We report: we have missed a train today, but we can only hope that the train dearly missed us in return. We waited at the station for the next one for a long time, watched people get off and on different trains until it got too cold for us to wait outside. Wispy cirrus.

January 21st

We report about the layer of ice covering everything, including the sky, including us. We are concerned that our eyeballs will freeze if we do not keep blinking. We are not seeing any birds this morning, and we are also worried that they might be frozen onto branches somewhere.

January 20th

We report: good morning - it is very early, but we wanted to bid good morning to you. We are wearing the whole shebang, scarf, and gloves, and hat, but we can still feel the chilly air close to our skin. The wind burns our eyes, and pre-dawn looks a little bit blurry.

January 19th

We report for our month of January so far, and by extension, the year: water, water, water. The earth is so full of water that no more can penetrate it. It is waterlogged, it squishes and squashes; fresh rainwater sits upon it in pools and puddles. Rivers crawl out of their beds.