January 13th

We report in the space of a few seconds, while the light shines just at the right angle, through the correct type of air: there is a small bit of iridescence sojourning on the edge of a cloud. This time, for once, we let it vanish without alerting anyone to its presence.

January 12th

We report: the sunset was cut a little bit short by the gathering clouds. The sky was clear throughout the day, but come dusk, a few wisps of condensation started to appear above the horizon. The west wind quickly brought more with it, and the humidity is now palpable.

January 11th

We report while we are still in the grasp of slumber: Mars, Castor, and Pollux are all holding hands, slowly descending towards the horizon. As they complete their journey across the vault, the sun is beginning its own on the opposite side. Our expert is still snoring lightly.

January 10th

We report: today, the fog is so dense that even our expert's keen eyes are starved for details. The sky seems a nebulous concept when brought down so low to the ground. We watch minuscule droplets of water dance in front of the fog lights, and the day goes by unseen.

January 9th

We report on a slow day: the clouds, too, are taking all the time in the world this morning. The ground is frozen solid, and we are finding a shimmer on every surface. We briefly thought time itself was not moving, until it all started to melt in the low winter sun.

January 8th

We report: someone has lit a fire in the neighbourhood, and we have trouble telling smoke from clouds. The days have not grown much longer yet, and the sunsets still seem to last hours, holding on tightly to each end of the afternoon. We tread well-worn grooves in muddy paths.

January 7th

We report on the moon side of things: one, two, three nights in a row we have been able to see the moon on its way down. For the month of January, this is nothing short of a miracle. A waxing gibbous, kept from the cold by the small clouds surrounding it, or so we hope.

January 6th

We report: while the sky is doing its best to swallow itself through its impossible maw, the hail starts falling. It is, at first, a handful of pebbles on the roof, but once it gets going for good, the sound is almost deafening. The afternoon is stitched out of these showers.

January 5th

We report as the wind is picking up: if we listen closely, we think we can hear the waves up there. The weather is changing, a taste of storm that carries from afar. We are taking a dive for cold waters, and we are watching the birds attempting to stay afloat.

January 4th

We report: the sunset is pressing down on us with all of its might this evening, insisting we pay attention; as though we are not always looking, even just from the corner of our eye. Once we are watching with our full field of view, it all goes very quick, over within minutes.

January 3rd

We report while the sky is taking on colour: we have dreamed a lot last night, several days' worth of living in dreams. As we are waking up, we are attempting to remember what the weather was like in our sleeping mind. Quite chilly, we think. On the bluer side, a little muted.

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.