October 8th

We report: we are starting to get into these autumn storms now. They are more wind than anything else, making us feel like we are speeding through several days of weather at a time. Last night, we spend all our dreams holding onto our blankets, for fear of them flying away.

October 7th

We report: it is a few hours after sunset, and right after the moon, too, has disappeared. The sky is a velvety black, the thinnest fog creating a shimmer among the stars. With an exclamation, our expert suddenly remembers that tonight is the peak of the Draconids meteor shower.

October 6th

We report about this wall cloud that has been sitting low in the sky for a little while now. Everything seems to be moving around it, but it remains steady. It is dark in the early evening, and the rain is quickly coming our way. A deep rumble sounds from the belly of the beast.

October 5th

We report: this is a vision, something so fleeting and hard to see that we might as well have imagined it. We try to point at it, but the sun is too bright for anyone to want to look there. When we tell our expert about it later, they show the appropriate amount of excitement.

October 4th

We report about the geese: it is about that time. We have been looking for them in the sky lately; it is hard to tell whether these ones are coming or going. We are a little worried to see them flying into the night like this, but our expert says they know what they are doing.

October 3rd

We report on a green morning: it is still all shadows down here, but the tiniest shift in light buries the night for good. As it is getting colder, the smell of mornings is sharper, burns like alcohol on the first breath, and stays at the back of the throat. The stars come with.

October 2nd

We report: all day, the wind swept the sky. There were small butterflies in front of the window, flung about like dead leaves. Somehow, they always found their way back, making small tornadoes of their own as they spun around one another. The light dims, and the wind gets louder.

October 1st

We report: while we had been fretting over the draughts and rains of September, October came in with a contradiction of a weather. It is bright blue and easy, the sunshine comes through yellowing foliage in a perfect autumn picture. The depth of the air remains humid still.

September 30th

We report: we almost missed our train this morning. We were half-running, out of breath, cursing ourselves for misjudging the time we had; we still had to pause for a few seconds when a flash of orange appeared at the end of a street. We made it with a minute to spare.

September 29th

We report as we are standing here in a field: we are trying to discern the movement of our planet by looking at the stars. Our hands are icy in our pockets, and the spinning remains imperceptible. After long enough, we feel a rumble under our feet. A train sounds in the distance.

September 28th

We report: when the tide goes in, it brings slate grey clouds and the brackish wind from the open sea. The sand is still wet from the last tide, and there is spume fluttering in the breeze. A few brazen birds are gliding in place, surveying the cloudy waters beneath them.

September 27th

We report on a slow morning: we find it hard to focus on the work that we have to do, when so much is happening on the other side of the window. The wall in front of our desk gets dappled with sunshine, and our eyes are again and again drawn to the fast-moving clouds.

September 26th

We report: the past few weeks have stolen an hour of sunlight from us, but we relish the smell of cold in the air. Looking at the thermometer, it is not all that chilly, yet it is both humid and windy, and we have not yet switched coats for the season. October already draws near.

September 25th

We report late at night, the misty moon barely risen: we think it might start to rain. We have felt a few drops on the back of our neck, but it is, for good reason, a little bit difficult to make out potential rain clouds. This is a chilly night, but we hear a few crickets still.

September 24th

We report: the clouds are looking darker for the sunshine coming from behind them. There is some rain skimming the horizon, and we keep expecting it to come closer, but it only moves laterally. This day has been spent in half-happenings, always a little to the side of things.

September 23rd

We report after the rain: in the space left by all the rain clouds, cirrus have spread out, forming with little care for boundaries, overlapping with one another. To our eyes that have not seen direct sunlight in a few days, the sky is overwhelmingly bright. Everything shines.

September 22nd

We report: the sunset was mostly over by the time we went out, and it was already dark enough that we were looking for our feet on the ground. More bats than birds, their lopsided flight swooping low in odd curves. The lights turn on, street by street, and the clouds turn grey.

September 21st

We report: this morning, the mountains are drowned in clouds. We could perhaps live here, where the air is thin and crisp, when the sun is busy taking precious, careful steps to rise. For a moment, we do not think about what will happen when we move on from this specific minute.

September 20th

We report a few hours after we hung the washing out to dry: this is rain, it absolutely is rain. Our expert confidently told us it would not rain this morning, and we listened to them. We keep feeling phantom raindrops. We have half a mind to take the laundry in.

September 19th

We report: we spend too much time thinking of what is summer and what is autumn in those September days. We ponder on smells and temperatures, foggy mornings and sunny evenings, "it is quite chilly today, isn't it" and "when is the equinox again?". Meanwhile, the birds fly south.