We report: the sky is too full. Or rather - there are too many clouds, densely packed together until there is absolutely no way to squeeze anymore in there. We are trying to determine whether this represents an issue. Time passes, yet the clouds only seem to crowd even more.
We report: there was a mosquito in our room last night. We never managed to see it, but the sound kept us awake for much longer than we would have liked. When the sky started brightening, we almost started crying with relief, until we realised we had not gotten any sleep yet.
We report about some of those special summer clouds that our expert describes as "cloud-like". The sunsets still run long and late; while we dip into Earth's shadow, we begin to see the outline of noctilucent clouds. We almost hear the clinking sounds of ice crystals.
We report on the first day of July: the clouds parted in the morning like a magic trick, and we thought it would get hot in the afternoon. Instead, though it was not especially cold either, other clouds came, and the sun remained an intermittent guest for the rest of the day.
We report: none of our expert's windows face westwards. They have a splendid view of the sunrise in the morning, but they can only ever make out the dregs of sunsets, and only when they lean far out of the window. To them, the sunset is mostly pink brushstrokes in the east.
We report some faint hints of twilight at the tail end of night. Bats are still out and busy, the flaps of their wings surrounding us as they swoop to our level. There is a shiver in the trees, shaking out some dew into our hair. We think about our expert, asleep in their bed.
We report: today was not as warm, and we felt some amount of satisfaction from watching the sky cloud over a little bit. We are not quite expecting precipitation of any kind yet, but we appreciate feeling like a solid again - as opposed to the melting mess we were yesterday.
We report in our dusk wanderings: there is a shard of sun set between two buildings, snug like a precious stone. Though it is almost gone, the pavement is still radiating heat, and the air is still shimmering with it. There is a slow breeze a few feet above our head.
We report: we are trying to figure out whether we are merely imagining the blush in this dusk sky. There is a myriad of birds in the fields this morning, all involved in a feedback loop to show who is the loudest of them all. Our expert is attempting to whistle back at them.
We report in late June, the early summer days: the weather has been odd, in a familiar way. It is a succession of muggy days that do not know where they are going. As a result, we gave up on trying to guess ourselves, and now sit in the liminal space between sunshine and rain.
We report: we watched the clouds rise with great interest this afternoon. Our expert was certain that they would mature into cumulonimbus, and we had no good reason to disagree, but we secretly wanted them to be wrong. The clouds fell down on their sides, a failed little storm.
We report on a long evening: there is that sunny smell that is still lingering in the air, something ozonic and bright. We expected to feel warm for it as well, but the air is very humid among the trees. We are dancing awkwardly in place to attempt to ward off the cold.
We report: it has been rainy enough over the past month that we have not had a chance to watch the moon change shapes. It looks especially large now, with the horizon to compare it to; a presence we had not realised we missed. We hope to see it again before the night is over.
We report mid-run under the rain: it is not so much that the raindrops are many, or particularly fast for that matter. The issue is that they are big. Our feeling is that we get doused with a bucketful with each drop. We regret looking up at the sky - we got rain in our eyes.
We report: our eyes have been wandering back to the sky all afternoon, as the clouds grew more and more ambitious. We picked up some odd shapes in the blue early on, and our expert took note of the plummeting atmospheric pressure. The sky filled up with updrafts and downdrafts.
We report: our alarm is supposed to go off in about one hour and change, but we have consistently been waking up with the sunrise, even through thick curtains. We attribute this to the proximity of the solstice. The sky insists on vibrancy, straining against our lack of sleep.
We report: the thunderstorm lived and died before dawn, a quiet affair that no one really seemed to have noticed when we asked in the morning. The thunder was a low rumble, something we only heard because we were awake, watching the will-o'-the-wisps light up the horizon.
We report: we watch the retreating storm clouds while the broken gutter is still flooding the pavement. There is a dandelion that is dancing frantically under the constant stream of water, and some gravel from recent construction is running down the street. The sun comes out.
