February 15th

We report about bright blue skies, and the cirrus that came to sweep them. They form when dry, warm air rises and the water in it clings onto metallic and mineral dust particles, and reaches a nucleation point. This is the point when we stopped listening to our expert.

February 14th

We report: one day, at sunset, we started marching towards the horizon with the sincere (naive, but sincere) hope to make it last longer. We quickly had to stop in our tracks when we came upon a body of water. Tonight, we would walk into the sea if we had to, to make this last.

February 13th

We report on the roadside: we got out of the car while our expert was looking for directions on their phone. It has rained heavily through the afternoon, and this road is all bumps and potholes. Cons and pros: we are getting splashed a lot, but the sky reflects in the puddles.

February 12th

We report: there was a really nice rainbow, and then we decided to look the other way, where the sun was piercing the clouds. The rain there, one of those sudden and quick showers, was bright like pieces of the sun itself were falling, crystal shards glistening in the light.

February 11th

We report about this thing we do quite a lot, looking up. When we get up - find a window, look up. We get out of the house - look up. Walking somewhere, looking up in a way that feels a little reckless. Waiting for our expert, we look up again. The sky is always there somehow.

February 10th

We report: early sunrise, and our room is bright pink around the long shadows. We are not entirely sure we are not dreaming still, but the wind moves the clouds, and the light falters for a second. When it comes back, we stumble to the window and stub our toe. Beautiful, though.

February 9th

We report on the night of the new moon. We have not paid much attention to the moon lately - difficult to look out for the moon when all the nights are cloudy. It seems fitting then, that we would remember it on the one night when it is going to be completely invisible.

February 8th

We report: the mimosa trees are blooming bright yellow in the freezing rain. Every year when they bloom, we get surprised - middle of the winter, every other plant is putting its energy into braving the cold, yet the mimosa tree loudly bursts into song. We have the sniffles.

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.