We report on a crisp evening, with the sun holding out until we are home to blink. We can feel the nippy wind on the back of our neck, but we have kept warm by walking long paces uphill. Our face feels hot, and our icy fingers burn when we touch our cheeks. Summer is still away.
We report: we have got some familiarity with asperitas at this point in time. We even know to look out for them in certain atmospheric conditions. Today, the air is thick and heavy, but there is no storm system on the approach. The clouds consider the concept of abstraction.
We report around midday under an ambivalent sky. We have got one arm in the sunshine, and the other in the shade, and we cannot figure out what we feel. The clouds seem indecisive in their own way, soaring, growing and breaking up into slipshod bits with bedraggled edges.
We report: it has been a few days with little to no wind, and we had already forgotten how a good breeze feels. Tonight, the clouds only stay long enough in the sky to put on a few colours. The wind has a bit of a chill to it, gives a good shake to our jumbled thoughts.
We report shortly before our bedtime: the sky is rather clear, but there is some amount of humidity that has made itself noticed after sunset. It has created a bloom in the atmosphere, and we are meeting the dew point. We wipe our face continually as the moon shyly glows.
We report: we barely feel like we have slept at all. It looks like the morning clouds might be the same ones we saw disappear into the darkness at midnight. Our expert's yawns fogs up their glasses, and we see rain in their eyes. At the station, an overhead line buzzes dryly.
We report about an afternoon in early June: it smells like the flowering privet hedge we are walking along, something heady and fresh. Our knees are a garish green. We knelt in the grass to watch a stag beetle totter through a field earlier, and then followed it on all fours.
We report: colours are leaking all over the floor, a mess that we keep slipping over. A hot soup of sunset. It has been a long day full of cold spots, and though it has only gotten colder in the evening, our face feels sunburnt. Night construction begins in the neighbourhood.
We report: it is very late, and looking out to the west, the sun has been extremely stubborn about setting, the greedy thing. The last of the purple light is just beginning to fade, and the first stars appear behind the clouds. Tonight, we see Castor and Pollux before any other.
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.
