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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
