January 22nd
We report: this is a messy morning, unsure of itself. It is pelting down with rain, and yet the sunrise is somehow coming through, soaking the clouds. Our expert took us up a path where ice patches are melting down into slushy mud, creating a sluggish stream under our feet.
January 21st
We report in the wake of a dream: we took a nap mid-afternoon while it was pouring down. We fell asleep to the pitter-patter of rain on the roof, and woke up to a ray of sunshine on our pillow. The whole sky has opened up, and the puddles are quicksilver in the light.
January 20th
We report: though the frost melts easily during the day, when we reach dusk once again, we can see car windshields fog over with ice. Still, though winter's hold is still strong, we can feel something stirring in the light. Our expert remarks on the sunset being a little late.
January 19th
We report on a brittle January morning: the dew point is rather low, and along with the wind, we think that we might freeze solid if we stay out too long. We count the handful of remaining stars in the sky, and the air inexplicably smells like dawn, brisk and sweet.
January 18th
We report: the stratus fractus of wet weather have come, and we are wondering as to what kind of wet weather we are supposed to be having. Until very recently, we were quite certain the weather would remain very dry throughout the day. Our expert puts on a second coat.
January 17th
We report at the shorter end of the afternoon: the light has come to glaze the world with honey. Though it is the coldest it has been since the early morning, there is a warmth to the clear sky. Our expert is still looking for the presence of clouds somewhere - typical behaviour.
January 16th
We report: for the second time now, we struggle in our attempt to button up our coat with our numb fingers. There is a robin hopping around the feet of bare bushes, rummaging through sodden leaves for worms. There is that complicated smell of white rot fungus in the air.
January 15th
We report long past our bedtime, whatever it is meant to be: the moon has prematurely vanished from the night sky, and we unfortunately do not have the patience to seek it out for very long. The clouds are moving at a leisurely pace, and we feel rather sleepy.
January 14th
We report: there is only a light breeze on the beach, but it is enough to carry a substantial amount of sea-spray. Only the ocean can tire us out this way, make us bone-weary, and the cold has gone to our feet despite all our layers. We also feel particularly alive.
January 13th
We report in the space of a few seconds, while the light shines just at the right angle, through the correct type of air: there is a small bit of iridescence sojourning on the edge of a cloud. This time, for once, we let it vanish without alerting anyone to its presence.
January 12th
We report: the sunset was cut a little bit short by the gathering clouds. The sky was clear throughout the day, but come dusk, a few wisps of condensation started to appear above the horizon. The west wind quickly brought more with it, and the humidity is now palpable.
January 11th
We report while we are still in the grasp of slumber: Mars, Castor, and Pollux are all holding hands, slowly descending towards the horizon. As they complete their journey across the vault, the sun is beginning its own on the opposite side. Our expert is still snoring lightly.
January 10th
We report: today, the fog is so dense that even our expert's keen eyes are starved for details. The sky seems a nebulous concept when brought down so low to the ground. We watch minuscule droplets of water dance in front of the fog lights, and the day goes by unseen.
January 9th
We report on a slow day: the clouds, too, are taking all the time in the world this morning. The ground is frozen solid, and we are finding a shimmer on every surface. We briefly thought time itself was not moving, until it all started to melt in the low winter sun.
January 8th
We report: someone has lit a fire in the neighbourhood, and we have trouble telling smoke from clouds. The days have not grown much longer yet, and the sunsets still seem to last hours, holding on tightly to each end of the afternoon. We tread well-worn grooves in muddy paths.
January 7th
We report on the moon side of things: one, two, three nights in a row we have been able to see the moon on its way down. For the month of January, this is nothing short of a miracle. A waxing gibbous, kept from the cold by the small clouds surrounding it, or so we hope.
January 6th
We report: while the sky is doing its best to swallow itself through its impossible maw, the hail starts falling. It is, at first, a handful of pebbles on the roof, but once it gets going for good, the sound is almost deafening. The afternoon is stitched out of these showers.
January 5th
We report as the wind is picking up: if we listen closely, we think we can hear the waves up there. The weather is changing, a taste of storm that carries from afar. We are taking a dive for cold waters, and we are watching the birds attempting to stay afloat.
January 4th
We report: the sunset is pressing down on us with all of its might this evening, insisting we pay attention; as though we are not always looking, even just from the corner of our eye. Once we are watching with our full field of view, it all goes very quick, over within minutes.
January 3rd
We report while the sky is taking on colour: we have dreamed a lot last night, several days' worth of living in dreams. As we are waking up, we are attempting to remember what the weather was like in our sleeping mind. Quite chilly, we think. On the bluer side, a little muted.