April 10th

We report in recent news about our night sky: lately, it is Capella that we see through our window after sun down. For this reason, we would like to personally congratulate Capella. Great job being one of our regulars, Capella! You are doing your constellation (Auriga) proud.

April 9th

We report: the sky has welled up in strange tears. We only saw them because we are always looking for odd shapes in the clouds; these slightly ominous ones faded in and out of the grey quite gracefully. The rain picked up again once they were out of sight, carried by the wind.

April 8th

We report about the loveliest, kindest paths in the sky that unfurl easily over long moments. They are weak and fragile, yet they stay. We watch them remain still, way up there, while everything moves under them. Then, they start diluting slowly, washed over in the sunshine.

April 7th

We report: it all ends with diaphanous sunshine, streaming in underneath clouds that sit solid and heavy. It was raining earlier, and we can see it will rain some more - nothing that our expert would be impressed with, but the horizon is rain-wrapped, and the wind blows our way.

April 6th

We report about the wind that has only gotten stronger through the night. There are all those different folds to the wind that we cannot usually hear quite as well. We can barely see a thing, but there is a deep rumble coming from the ground, sending vibrations through our feet.

April 5th

We report: we are teetering on the edge of full-on rain. How shall we declare the presence of rain? Drops per minute? If so, we count a mere five that we can feel on the back of our hand. The wind shimmers with sharp icy teeth. It gets into our shirt, and bites our ankles.

April 4th

We report: the clouds are masquerading as soft and sweet, summery even, but do not fall for their treacherous appearance. In a few moments, when the blue sky has your trust, it will starts raining again. Curtains of rain, a bucketful, right on your head, when you least expect it.

April 3rd

We report: early in April, we can already feel the visceral pull of deep spring. The roots and the leaves, the wet earth and the wriggling worms, and the bumblebees. At dawn, the horizon is set ablaze, and the world comes up to a roar - might as well see how bright it gets.

April 2nd

We report, tonight, from the depths of soggy darkness. It is a day for night set out here, the clouds are practically shining in the sub-horizon light. Our expert talks at length about the Purkinje effect, the fact that the colour our human eyes see best in low light is blue.

April 1st

We report: oh the messiness, oh the inconvenience of beautiful weather. We could leave it be, go through our days without care for what the sky is doing. The intricacies, after all, do not matter in the grand scheme of things. But, truth is, we abandon everything for a nice cloud.

March 31st

We report: March coming to an end in loud bursts of storms and blue skies all the same. It is a month that exists to give way to something different, to contain change. We have a hope that there is more after this, before all of our pieces get scattered in the wind.

March 30th

We report on a slow day: our heavy heart sits in the warmth of this two-tone sunset, tight throat with the sharp, green wind swirling above the pond. We forgot the bird names we learned last spring, but they are all here tonight, scratching the mirror of water when they fly low.

March 29th

We report: it is the sky, the very same, the one we have known since we were born. It is in the same spot, has not moved from its superior position, is very reliable. It is interesting, then, that it is also so unpredictable and prone to changes. The clouds just turned blue.

March 28th

We report from the inside of a cloud: we can see the mist roll over the grass, heavy and slow in the stillness that the fog invokes. We think we ought to move at the same pace, that we ought to let the fog do what it needs to do so that it may rise at some point.

March 27th

We report: a little dip back into winter, these last few days. It is all very well and good to imagine going past a certain point and affirm that "here is the new season", but the reality of the matter is much different. Still, the sun makes valiant efforts to climb ever higher.

March 26th

We report large gashes wide open all over the sky, like two people each grabbed one opposite end and pulled as hard as they could. Like, say, perhaps, a reporter and their expert, hypothetically, if that was something someone could do. Either way, the light is fading quick.

March 25th

We report: it is marshy here, and we are struggling to pick our feet back up every time we put them down. We speak low, but the sound of our steps is louder than our voice anyway. We watch our expert's back through the fog of our breath. The full moon is completely obscured.

March 24th

We report a messy morning, windy enough to make waves in the large puddles on our path. The light is indolent, dragging behind as the rest of the world moves forward. We feel a bit small, a bit sideways, a little upside down; maybe the low clouds feel heavy on our shoulders.

March 23rd - 10 PM

We report short showers at night, loud but difficult to see. Clouds pass by, borrowing dark, shimmering colours from the moon. It is almost full, the moon; it is at least bright enough that we feel like we are missing out when we are not looking. A shiver when it is fully hidden.

March 23rd - 7 PM

We report: there has to be a lot of wind for the clouds to be chased in and out like that, and it was windy indeed, today. We witnessed so many different skies; perhaps the wind was the only constant. The sun is now hovering precariously over the horizon, clouds are still moving.