January 2nd

We report: it ought to be an interesting life, we think, to be a cloud. Half a ghost, only somewhat tangible. A nebulous presence that may sometimes rub shoulders with birds and planes, with a chance to contribute to some sort of precipitation at some point or another.

January 1st

We report on the first day of the year: it seems the weather is all over the place already, perhaps as a way to avoid blank page syndrome. Still early in the day, and we have seen fog, and rain, and wind. Now the sky is just beginning to clear, a spot of sunshine in the cold.

December 31st

We report: this year, we had endeavoured to keep count of all of our blinks. We lost count within roughly seven minutes after the clock struck midnight. For the next year, we have decided to abstain from such resolutions, although we do hope to see a few more sunrises.

December 30th

We report ocean colours in the dusk sky, restless bits and all. Wedged between two clouds, Vega is slowly sinking into heavier waters, along with the rest of its invisible constellation; dragged into the deep by an endless stream. We feel taken by the same eddy.

December 29th

We report: we look at any cloud that looks particularly tall with suspicions of snow lately. It is not a very realistic expectation, and it constantly sets us up for disappointment, but we cannot help ourself. We can tell our expert is letting us believe on purpose.

December 28th

We report: it is winter in earnest now, and we are getting used to our nose and our toes always being a little bit cold again. We came here back in the summer, and it is a wonder that we can barely remember how the sun felt then, true, high, and bright in the sky.

December 27th

We report in the shadows of this worn day: the sun is a drop of lemon juice in mallow tea, pink acidity bleeding into tired purple. We are crumbling down to the last days of the year, and we keep expecting that there will be no more, that we will shut it all down early.

December 26th

We report: it is very, very early in the morning, and we have all but forgotten why we are even awake. It has to be the coldest night ever recorded, whatever our expert says. The culprit is, as it often is, the humidity. The stars bravely pierce through the fog.

December 25th

We report: the sun is filtering through the rain, revealing brassy tones in the air, suspended crystals glinting off in the light. We breathe in, and in, and in, because there is a smell just out of reach that reminds us of something. It slips off before we can catch it.

December 24th

We report this December morning: our expert has been teaching us to be attentive to the weather for years now, and we do our best. We tried to predict today's weather two days ago; freezing rain, wind, perhaps a brief sunny spell. Today, we have requested our expert keep quiet.

December 23rd

We report: we took the road that heads westwards just so we could see the sunset better. It is going to be quite the detour, at least until dark, when the way will be harder to find. The clouds wander at the slowest pace, though we can see the trees sway wildly on the ground.

December 22nd

Digital painting of the seaside at nightfall. It is all shades of blue, the overcast sky, and the sea with its frothy waves. On the horizon, the coast and a few islands are visible. There are yellow and white lights dotting them.

December 21st

We report on the day of the winter solstice: the whole event almost passed us by, which is a common issue on the shortest day of the year. It was a good thing, then, that we were able to witness a brief, faint rainbow. A little something to remember this solstice by.

December 20th

We report: the seagulls are a loud crowd out here this morning, just like every other morning, to be frank. The cold on the seaside is quite a different affair. The wind is a constant, of course, but the briny air cuts deeper. It is lucky that we found our lost glove.

December 19th

We report: we saw a field mice run across the path earlier, and it was all we could do not to take it home to give it a scarf and a hat. We are aware that we are projecting, what with the fact that we only have one glove for some reason. We are jumping in place to warm up.

December 18th

We report: the night is pulling away, and the rain is going as well. For unknown reasons, the street lamps on our block have not been working lately; the nights have been dark places out of this world. When the morning comes, we get brought back to reality. We fall back asleep.

December 17th

We report about these dusk-tinged days around the solstice. They are brittle little things, the wobbly light threatening to go out upon the smallest disturbance. We go about our afternoon with careful steps, lest the whole things blinks out. The soft clouds stretch forevermore.

December 16th

We report: just a minute ago, the sky was a perfect blue, but now that we look again, all sorts of intruders have appeared. A little bit further west, the cloud cover is impressively dense. In the east, the horizon is still completely clear. We are giving it two minutes more.

December 15th

We report on this mid-December day: it has been an oddly quiet day. The last few weeks have been punctuated with storms and cold spells; many roofs lost their tiles, and our usual path is currently a mud slide. Today, there was a light drizzle, and nothing much else. Quiet.

December 14th

We report: the trees are already bare here, and the moon is too big in the sky - always is, while it is rising. It would seem that autumn was a short affair here. It is that much easier to see the evening birds without the leaves, and we track their silhouettes in the dusk sky.