We report: there was the rumble of thunder a few times before we realised was it was, and by then, the storm was on the horizon. We looked out for some rain, or lightning, but it was all long gone. The sky cleared out in a few minutes, and we felt at a bit of a loss.
We report from our vantage point: we cannot seem to find a high enough hill to see above the clouds. We have compromised for feeling a bit taller than usual, and it is worth it to watch the shadows that the clouds cast on the fields. We feel a misplaced sense of superiority.
We report: there it is, this is June, to the East between the clouds. We try to remember what it was like the previous year, walking into summer, but we can barely recollect anything. It all gets lost in the heat, maybe, but we hear the beginnings of a shower at this very moment.
We report about colours that are more akin to flavours - peach and raspberry and apricot and so on. We have to hurry up, our expert is waiting for us; the evening passes on, dissolves into greys before blues, and then the absence of colours. We try not to forget how it tasted.
We report: there was fog when we fell asleep last night, and it has not entirely lifted yet in the blue morning. There is a sea in the field. We are squinting at it as though it were the glare of the sun, hoping to see through it. We get mist in our eyelashes for our troubles.
We report on a damp morning: we are heading towards the end of May after a rather clement few days. We are not yet so close to summer that the warmth lingers. It seeps in slowly, but as soon as the sky clouds over, it dissipates within moments. So this day begins, in drizzle.
We report: it is only right that we should sometimes point out how very nice a moment is. This evening is lovely indeed; windy, not uncomfortably so. There are emerald and cadmium and phtalo and moss greens in the trees, all shiny in the golden light. It is so late, so bright.
We report about the vast and the endless crammed into a minute. It happens when we are overwhelmed with sunsets; our minds get too full for us to remember the world has not always been like this, drowned in red light that reaches further than it should. We feel warm in the fire.
We report: morning, the sunrise is starting to show colours through the clouds. The leaves are heavy with dew, and rain is fast approaching. The air is already charged with that humid morning smell, but there is definitely rain on top. It feels icy as it goes through our nose.
We report on a balmy day: the sun keeps showing up just long enough to warm the air, enough that the back of our neck feels hot. Then it disappears, and the warmth feels more diffuse. We are walking at a good pace, so we sweat in our raincoat. It smells like freshly cut grass.
We report: the sky is uncovering, inch by inch. It takes all afternoon. There are showers; the clouds move in and out again, one step forward, two steps back, until the wind takes charge. All that blue above looks fresh, just like a new coat of paint, bleeding through the clouds.
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.
