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  We report: the moon will be full in a few hours, but it is not yet the bright floodlight that we are used to on clearer nights. Although the cloud cover is thin, it still manages to dim the moonlight. In a way, we feel grateful; it is easier to observe the craters like this.

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  We report: later on, the sky is still working to sort itself out, all its pieces scattered every which way. The storm has moved on to the east, shaking some other trees that we do not know about. Many of the leaves of the trees we do know are on the ground now.

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  We report: the sky was still bright when we got on the train. We watched the slow spread of ink over the clouds, the gilding of the horizon, and the rain advancing our way - or rather, we are coming to the rain. Just like this, when we get off the train, it is a different world.

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  We report: later on, it starts pouring, but only after the sun has really finished setting. Our expert confirms it; the sun is below the horizon, and we are even a few paces into nautical twilight by the time any raindrops can be felt. We are completely taken by surprise.

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  We report: as the sky is slowly clearing up at nightfall, dusk is dragging on over the hour (one step forward and two steps back). In the east, the sky is already completely dark, still wrapped up in clouds. It is difficult to tell, but it might also still be raining there.

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  We report: there is a little bit too much to look at in the sky this afternoon. We try to focus on the expansion of a single cloud, but something else is always happening just to the side. The light is catching on every mountain and valley that exist in the clouds.

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  We report: walking away from the city and into the countryside, the streetlights are spread further and further apart. We see glowing eyes in the bushes, and the trees are dark, loom high over our heads. We overestimated the time we had before nightfall. It smells like rain.

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  We report: there is a bit of wind, and a lot of sunshine, humidity as well as we get to the later part of the afternoon. We are getting familiar with this feeling again - autumn and spring, when we are not sure whether we are hot or cold, or both at the same time.

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  We report: there are flocks of birds in the sky at nightfall again. The days are still warm, but they are getting short, enough that we have to look out for the height of the sun in the late afternoons. Our export reminds us that the autumn equinox is in a few days.

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  We report: it rained a lot, and our clothes have yet to dry completely. Even then, although we can feel our damp socks in our shoes, it feels like a new day when the sun comes out. It is brighter for the way it lives in puddles, in raindrops that are still suspended to the trees.

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  We report: this is pre-dawn. Under the glare of the streetlight, we hear a robin‘s song. The blue of this twilight is vibrating at a strange frequency that we cannot place. It seems to be a shade we had never seen before, solid and fuzzy at the same time. Our ears are buzzing.

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  We report: we feel completely dwarfed by the clouds today. Every time we look up, they seem to get taller. We think they might be absorbing the other, smaller clouds when we are not looking, and there are plenty more of those. The sun manages to come through the chaos.

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  We report: our expert is too busy catching up on solar weather reports to deign join us for the sunset - it appears that they had missed the news of a minor geomagnetic storm. Down here, even through the highs and lows of atmospheric pressure, the storm clouds pass quietly.

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  We report at nightfall, ahead of the cold front we are expecting in the morning: the wind is rising. The atmospheric pressure is still dropping. The stars are twinkling through the clouds; the humidity is creating halos around them. The few raindrops are flying in the breeze.

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  We report: late in the afternoon, we see a large blanket of clouds sweep across the whole width of the sky. Everywhere we look, it keeps pushing in, getting thicker as it goes. Later on, it starts losing its contours in the dim dusk light, but we know it is still there.

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  We report: the sunflowers have all begun to wilt. They are all looking at the ground. We can see their seeds starting to appear behind the florets. It is September now; even on days when it is hot, the sun is getting lower, which means so should the sunflowers.

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  We report: of course, we see the moon on a night when we were not expecting it, cloudy as the day was. It is also at a time when we are practically falling asleep on our feet. We do stay for a few minutes to watch the clouds wrap the moon in mother-of-pearl, again and again.

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  We report: gorse and heather are in full bloom now, and the hills smell like honey. Also, because it rained so much in the previous week, we can make out some brand new autumn smells. They are an odd, but familiar mix of rotting wood, damp chalk, and crisp nights.

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  We report: late afternoon, the sun is disappearing behind the cliffs. On the coast trail, in the shade of the trees, the path ahead is already a little too dark. There is a lot of humidity here, rising from the ocean, but also from a thin stream winding among horsetail.

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  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.

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  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.

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  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.

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  We report: it got very windy during the afternoon, sudden gusts that had us looking up every few minutes. The sound of the rush of air in the dry brush is sharp, and loud, arresting in the way things out of our control can be. We still hear it as we are trying to fall asleep.

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  We report: with the apparition of asperitas clouds, even the more discrete ones, we still unconsciously expect a big storm, or at least big rain later on. In the end, today, like most of the times we’ve encountered asperitas, they dissolve without much of a fuss.

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  We report: we can feel the land breeze blowing against our back, and still no stars. At this point in time, we should be able to see Arcturus, Spica, Capella, or at the very least, Venus. It seems that, unbeknownst to us, some invisible clouds have appeared since sunset.

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  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.

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  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.

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  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.

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  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.

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  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.