We report: our expert has spotted two red kites sweeping across the sky. They were proud of themselves for recognising the specific bird, but they were careful to keep their distance; still not too fond of birds. Meanwhile, the cirrus spissatus are withering away.
We report: we thought we had seen all this sunset had to offer, but we stayed a few moments longer. When the sky got almost dark enough for the first planets to emerge from its depths, some of the higher clouds started to glow - and only when those faded was it truly over.
We report: we found more clouds throughout the day, and varying weather, too. There was wind that moved the clouds along, and in the evening, it got humid. It is a little foggy now. We keep track of it all as we go, and we wonder if we can hope for some rain in the near future.
We report: now, there are clouds. Not just a few, not a thin layer, not stormy, let alone rainy clouds; a proper cloud cover. These would normally be somewhat unremarkable to us. Thinking about it, however, it has been months since we have seen this kind of weather.
We report: we think something happened while we were under the cover of the trees, but we are unsure what it was. For a moment, though the sky had been cloudless since dawn, the light dimmed, and the wind suddenly rose. On the ground, the shadows of the leaves shifted.
We report: we come across our storm chaser friend at dusk, while he is not chasing any storms. He tells us that he has taken up crosswords in his downtime, of which he has had quite a bit lately. The clouds get longer and wispier, utterly un-stormlike in their peaceful demeanour.
We report about something that has happened to us before, and most likely will again: we briefly confused the clouds for the Milky Way. In that very narrow time window, we were amazed at the clarity of its contours, our breath taken away. We then had to come back down to Earth.
We report: we have our expert on the phone from a neighbouring town; it is pelting down there, loud enough that we can hear it on the line when they speak. We see it from where we are, too, the mass of water darkening the horizon. The rain then moves north instead of towards us.
We report: for a handful of seconds, taken by the sun, we feel weightless. It seems as though it is just us and the sun, and there is the burn and a pleasant warmth at once, a golden glow and the searing light too. The clouds continue to move on, and the sun disappears in them.
We report: after a night of stargazing, we are on our way to sleep, but the sun is doing everything it can to keep us awake. Our expert is continuously yawning as they comment on the movement of the crepuscular rays, and we are trying very hard not to rub our eyes.
We report: in a race against sunlight, we saw Castor move over the horizon, followed by Pollux, and now Mercury is finally pulling through. In a show of unfairness, because Mercury is a planet, it will stay brighter and longer than all the stars - even though it was late.
We report: this afternoon, there was a brief rain shower which sounded so loud on the tin rooftop that we were convinced it was hail. We soon went looking for hailstones, but the rain had already stopped by then. Within minutes, the sky cleared, and the ground dried off.
We report: mid-morning, the sun turns from light source to a heat lamp, specifically pointing to the back of our neck. We walk close to the walls, in the slivers of shade that live there, and those are still much cooler in comparison. We sometimes find wind in the wider streets.
We report: we see half a dozen sunrises on the train. The sun emerges from behind the clouds, casting an orange glow across the whole sky, then the clouds swallow it back. Minutes later, another place, the shape of the clouds has changed, but it happens again the exact same way.
We report: we do let our eyes get used to the darkness for half an hour, and we remember to only use red lights. We do it the right way, but the moon is bright behind the trees, the sky is still full of smoke, and so it turns out that the crickets are much louder than the stars.
We report: the whole sky is rising all at once, all the clouds suddenly competing for height. We did not perceive whatever changed in the atmosphere to make this happen, but the flies are nervous, the dogs are barking, and the birds are flying low. We wonder where the ceiling is.
We report: once a large, single cloud, we have watched the steam get carved out into fine lace. These new clouds are as much about the emptiness they are wrapped around as the steam itself. In time, the bits of clouds keep getting smaller until we cannot point them out anymore.
We report: the sun is flattening itself against the horizon as best as it can. The shock of red is hypnotising us, keeping us rooted to the ground while we watch it go down. It grows redder and redder as it sinks into the earth, even when only a few embers remain.
We report right at the end of sunset, almost exactly missing the sun. Rising in its stead in the belt of Venus, the moon slowly goes from pink to orange. As we try to keep up with it, bats fly by our face, always narrowly missing it. The heat of the day is not leaving.
We report: we start heading into the evening with the clouds, and the light behind the haze is becoming greyer before it can turn blue. Some other day, some other year, this could be rain, but it is not so easy today - even though we cannot help but look for it.
We report: it is easy, with the clouds laid out like this, to think of the sky as this geological time scale; see this Precambrian altocumulus pushed up by the neighbouring volcanic activity. See the cirrocumulus shale pushed up against the salt dome, unable to ride further.