March 22nd
We report: the fashion of travelling amongst clouds is extremely orderly today, exemplary behaviour we think. They are all, to the best of their ability, arranged in a row, moving at an appropriate, reasonable speed. We can appreciate an effort at reining chaos in (good luck!).
March 21st
We report about a conspiracy: the clouds are swallowing the sun, curling around it, smothering it as though they could snuff it out if they tried hard enough. We know from experience that this is something the sun will come back from. We still stare with a low level of anxiety.
March 20th
We report: this is Jupiter, right there, bright and lonely. We could pretend that we knew this right off the bat, but it would be wrong. Jupiter has been in our sky for more than a few nights now, and we have pointed and asked "what's this one, then" for most of them.
March 19th
We report in the beginning of the afternoon; from our vantage point, we can see the light struggle to make it through the clouds very well. It trickles down sluggishly, caught in pits and ditches of steam. Where the rain falls, way down there, it is dark and opaque.
March 18th
We report: for this sky, on a day such as this one, we have to wonder whether we are completely clear on the definition of "cloud". Are these clouds blue or white? What counts as "cloud"? And how can we count these clouds? The more we stare, the more confusion arises.
March 17th
We report about the saffron light this evening, something that fell over the world with the finality that is granted by sunsets. After a muggy day, the end of the afternoon has come to unravel the clouds, pulling all the threads until blue was visible through the stitches.
March 16th
We report: waxing crescent moon descending, a little bit over a week before the full moon. We almost missed it behind buildings and trees, but when we saw it, the sky was darkening just enough that it stood out. A bright spot among the scattered evening clouds.
March 15th
We report about the many blinks lost in the wind, untied shoelaces dipped in puddles, the mangled, blue, sodden clouds. The cars hiss on shiny roads, a sharp white noise that splashed the hems on our trousers. The sun will set soon after a day of hiding (a recipe for insomnia).
March 14th
We report: in the dip of the curve on the bump in the cycle of daylight, we managed to pinpoint the precise moment when yellow light started to walk into the sky. At the very least, one moment it was not there, and the next, it was. Things of the sky work between intervals.
March 13th
We report a kind little path to daylight, nothing so bright as to be considered rude in the early morning. We bumped into our expert in the kitchen last night, an apparition glowing in the refrigerator's light. We stayed up after that; the sunrise meets our tired, bleary eyes.
March 12th
We report: we have to watch the stars so that they will not fall, that is our job, we are paid for it - or so our expert says. We do not mind. It is late and our eyes feel very dry, but we could keep watching for the rest of the night, if we are allowed to blink a few times.
March 11th
We report about the sun cutting through the sky after it got all wrung out - the walk in the rain that got us mud on our knees and up to our elbows, smelling of pennies and petrichor until we got home. Even then, it got caught in our nose, something green, and watery, and deep.
March 10th
We report: in a corner of the sun where the light leaks out in oily streaks, we found something that we could see with our naked eyes. Hours later, it sticks, persistent, a brazen stroke of odd colours that we are not all that familiar with. The clouds have long gone.
