We report about early in the night, when there is still blue to be found in the remnants of light. This is not anywhere near a clear night - we can tell by the brushstrokes across the vault - but we see more than a few stars. They come out shy and dim, but we see them.
We report: we might go into the clouds and never make it back someday. Nobody would know where we went. We think about it, often, as if it were something that could really happen. Today, we stare up at this massive edifice that encompasses the whole sky, and we are already there.
We report about a day after a thunderstorm. After the turmoil and the churning in the sky, the atmospheric pressure has gone back up, around 1015 hectopascals at the moment. The sky has been a steady blue since morning, and the cirrus look decidedly placid. Low wind.
We report: mid-May, when we go to bed, the sunset is fresh in our mind. The colours stick, the direction in which the clouds moved, the shapes of them. We reach the threshold of sleep with a firm hold on the orange that grazed the top of buildings until late into dusk.
We report: used and abused, the black of the night, scrubbed enlightened to the purple of overlit spaces. The night lands too softly, and peals of light scatter into empty clouds. We were woken by a distant clamour, a roar of joined voices that infiltrated our dreams.
We report: we had no idea night was so close. The sky has been low through the afternoon, layers upon layers of thick clouds - it was dark all along. Now, judging from the colour of the light seeping through, sunset must be near. The birds are flying higher and higher.
We report about dissolved clouds, small shreds of steam moving unconsolidated; they are headed in the same general direction, but with a remarkable lack of purpose. Our expert gently explains to us that there is no use in anthropomorphising clouds, but we cannot help it.
Digital painting of a sunset scene in the countryside. The sky is orange, a subtle gradient with a small, thin yellow cloud floating there. The landscape: blue mountains in the distance, then a line of green trees, and a field of tall grass that the sunset tints orange in some places.
We report at dawn: when we got up during the night, the sky was clear and full of stars, but this morning, we can smell rain and shivers on the wind. The clouds brood, big and dark; we appreciate their languidness in the face of the breeze. In time, the sunlight will break out.
We report on the brightest day yet this year: it has not rained in a few days. Because it is rather warm today, the smell in the air is one that brings us back to a very specific moment - many years back, spring, a cloud moves to let sunshine onto our face. We sneeze.
We report: salty in the back of our throat, the morning has opened up so that, even if it is early, we feel welcome to be alive in it. We wait for our commute and fall back asleep a little while standing. We confuse twilights and we go home in a dream - what an odd day already.
We report on a moonless night: the power is out in the neighbourhood. Our eyes are tired, it is a balmy spring evening, and when we look up, we cannot help but think the stars are about to fall on us. They flicker. We lose our balance as we forget where the ground is.
We report from the exact right angle, at the exact right moment, a burst of light, something fierce and bright. That sunshine would have been scattered into the sky anyway, but to see it surge from behind the clouds like this has to count as something special, perhaps a miracle.
We report: the sun stretches to long scraps of ashen light, not enough to go around the whole sky. It is burning at both ends, and the day is all done, over, and we are able to say that we have lived through it. Cross it out, start a new one. And the sun stretches thinner still.
We report at the hour when ghosts appear, walking in the middle of the road. It is not enough of a place that we imagine any cars could come by here and now, but we keep listening for them anyway. Instead, we hear echoes of a motorway in the distance, and the wind in our ears.
We report: despite all appearances, this is not much of a day for rain. The clouds contort themselves around precipitations, spinning around aimlessly while no wind blows. The sky above is a careless blue, steady when we catch a glimpse of it. The sun hits through the greys.
We report in the easy morning light, the air blooms around the clouds. We do not remember whether we heard any rain last night, but the grass is especially wet, and the mud is fresh on the path. It smells bright. The sun comes out all the time. The sky keeps sprawling out.
