July 19th

We report in the purlieus of night: the sky is crowded with clouds that are working hard to stifle the eventide light. It is only just working, though it is even raining quite a bit. The darkness is busy and loud, and the wildlife sounds raise hairs on the back of our neck.

July 18th

We report: it is a windy day. The field is breathing in ripples, dry grass whistling in rhythm. The barn behind us sounds like it is about to collapse, but it has held on until now. The swallows are swaying about the sky like paper planes. It still smells like sunshine, somehow.

July 17th

We report during the hottest hour of the day: the glare of the sun has turned the pavement gummy. We have tried to avoid the worst of it, but the soles of our shoes have gotten tacky, and we feel it with every step. The blue of the sky gets deeper as the light gets starker.

July 16th

We report: since the sun has already vanished from the sky, the remnants of colour there are quickly fading. The daylight is diluting into grey fog, drops in an ocean. Our thoughts etiolate just as much, turning into an ellipsis, so we open a parenthesis. A moon follows the sun.

July 15th

We report from the kitchen window, before dawn: we thought the deep rumbles we heard would have been a truck, slowly driving past our house. Upon closer examination, the sound comes from much further away. We have stayed by the window, listening to the thunder. No lightning.

July 14th

We report: we thought we had lost time when the light came out yellow through the window. The sun was not supposed to set for another hour, but the clouds were thick enough to bend the sunshine that way. We came out to get a better look, and felt a fine mist on our face.

July 13th

We report about this morning, all the ice feathers that are holding the sky together so it may make it through the day. You freeze the sky, if you are afraid that it will fall down. You freeze it, and you keep an eye on it, and perhaps you will keep yourself together as well.

July 12th

We report: our expert has taken us to see the sunset so that they could point out certain elements in the sky. Not for the first time, we try our best to follow, taking notes, asking questions. Not for the first time, we are glad that they are the expert, and we do the reporting.

July 11th

We report at twilight: we have moved through the day with sleep in our eyes. We slept last night, but we carry the insomnia of another night. Now, as the day slows down, we feel even heavier. Even so, we notice the summer wind that pushes blue clouds, and the smell of wild lilac.

We report: there are brambles growing on the pavement. They have been escaping a garden for years now, and they hang over the road - full of flowers and unripe fruits at this point in the year. The sky is heavy and dark, but not in a stormy way. It will keep carrying the weight.

July 9th

We report from the beach: the wind is blowing hard, parallel to the sea, shearing the waves. The sky has been mostly wiped clear, and we see gulls gliding across it with not a single wing flap. Whenever we face the ocean, our hair flies all over our face, so we stand at an angle.

July 8th

We report: a little bit of space in the vast has been made to allow the sunrise to show through. The clouds have dutifully pushed themselves out of way so that there is a little pale glow in their stead. There is a drizzle patiently waiting backstage to close the curtains again.

July 7th

We report: it still smells like the rain from this afternoon, but also like the sunshine that came after, and the chilly twilight wind. There are crickets, sparrows, and bats in the fields. It is busier than ever in the blue light. All the things that are happening all the time.

July 6th

We report: while it was raining earlier, it was much harder to imagine the type of cloud that was above our heads, by virtue of it being above our heads. Now that it has moved away, it looks even bigger with the way it rises into the atmosphere. It is still raining, somehow.

July 5th

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.

July 4th

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.

July 3rd

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.

July 2nd

We report: we cannot quite tell where all this light is coming from all of a sudden, and frankly, the light itself is making it hard to tell. Each raindrop is catching the sun and casting it into our eyes, and we do not have sunglasses with us. It is getting warm.

July 1st

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.

June 30th

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.