We report: now that the temperatures are closer to the seasonal average, the sky has gotten more familiar to us. It is not so much about specific clouds, but rather the diversity, and the changes, the uncertainty. We realise we are not very fond of the certainty of a clear sky.

We report: for a while, as we walk down the street, the buildings and trees are too tall to let us get a good look, but the sunset’s glow is everywhere. It is incredibly damp, the amount of humidity barely under the point of saturation; sometimes, we feel a lone raindrop.

We report: after the bit of rain that we had yesterday, the night sky is clearer than it had been in some weeks, much less hazy. We leave the constellation names aside, and let ourselves sit there and pretend each moving, blinking satellite in the sky is a shooting star.

We report: we wait and wait for the rain, and once we stop waiting and hoping, the rain comes. Immediately, with the sky heavy, and the air saturated with water, we feel lighter. It goes on like this for hours, and even when it stops, the sky remains overcast. We breathe easier.

We report on the horizon: a weak imitation of a squall line is helpfully displaying stages of the lifecycle of cumulonimbus, and in chronological order, too. Our expert finds it a valuable teaching moment, and spends some time pointing out the calvus and capillatus species.

We report: something has gotten in the air - smoke, sand, humidity, the whole lot - and it has captured the sun some hours before dusk. A veil is drawn across the sky. There is a bit of a chill there, or at least, what counts as one these days, a little shiver in the half-light.

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.

We report: no rain, it barely feels humid, and the mammatus pass over us as though following a large storm we never saw. Over our head, the structures that had created the contours of a map slowly disintegrate. Perhaps we intruded on a rehearsal for something larger.

We report: it is early evening, and the sun’s journey through the atmosphere is getting longer and longer. The heat has made us feel sleepy, and we are finding it difficult to care about anything but the movements of the clouds. We are here for hours, in this specific moment.

We report: threads of light are trailing after the sunset, and the dry air is becoming more breathable. It has felt like noon all day, the intensity of the sun, the narrow, sharp shadows. Our expert, remarkably, manages to feel a little cold when a light breeze shakes the wheat.

We report: only the brightest stars remain - of which, all things considered, there are many. Mirfak, Hamal, Aldebaran and Menkar, most of the Auriga constellation, and of course, Mars and Saturn are visible. For some reason, however, we cannot look away from the moon.

We report: we are expecting a clear sky throughout the day, but at sea, early morning, the horizon is nowhere to be found. Through the fog, the light is dull as to make the ocean look solid. We lean over to look more closely, but the surface of the water is utterly impenetrable.

We report: the sky speaks of vanishing patterns, past conditions of humidity and wind shear. They only remain in washed up waves of cirrocumulus. Lately, we find it difficult to interpret the movements of the clouds as we usually would. Signs of change instead induce stillness.

We report: summer heather is blooming on the outskirts of the town. In silent streets, a flock of swifts comes and goes in flurries of shrieks. The cirrus are getting thicker, but also more difficult to see as the sun sets. We feel warmth radiating from the asphalt on our ankles.

We report: when we get to the shore in the blue hour, the gulls pay us no mind, their shrieks too loud in our morning ears. The sand under our feet is dry, but feels liquid for how cold it is. The sky is opaque, waiting for some pink to bleed through in the next half hour.

We report: as we were walking, the sky ahead of us was a milky white, certainly nothing like rain. We stopped for a sip of water, and finally noticed the clouds pooling behind us. We almost immediately felt a raindrop on our cheek, the wind pushing our hair into our face.

We report: when the sky is this intensely blue, it tends not to stay that way. The clouds are pushing up like daisies, with a sort of boundless impetus we envy them. All of this will surely lead to a less blue sky eventually, but for now, the fragile balance holds.

We report at the end of an exceedingly humid day: all through the afternoon, each movement we made triggered a comical amount of sweating. We have now made it through, and we find that the sky is dealing with the humidity in its own away. The sun sets in the mist.

We report: we find the moon at its highest during the darkest hours of the night, while we are not awake enough to articulate any thought. We look at the diffraction of the moonlight in the clouds, and the iridescence it produces colours our late night dreams.

We report: where the river meets the sea, there is something in between mist and a light drizzle. It stays right here, a light blur on the horizon, the air brinier than ever. The ducks are searching the silt for snails and worms. Our expert‘s hair is curling around their face.

We report: feels like late August, yellow grass along the roads, and fair weather clouds sweeping the sky. Our expert finds flowers of early summer in the undergrowth; on the banks of the streams, in the shadows of the willows and the oaks. The afternoon is too long for August.

We report: there was rain for a few hours in the morning, and then it did not get much warmer. Now, at sunset, we can still find beads of water on leaves here and there. It gets a little cold, too, enough for a jacket, but we wait until our expert gets the sniffles to go home.

We report: up north, the thunderstorms of this afternoon have found a home over the coast, hovering there for hours. While sleep escapes us, we track the path of lightning in the air. We sometimes also find the moon and the stars in and out of the clouds.

We report: on the approach of the clouds, we feel weighed down, finding it hard to move. There is a sense that we are seeing something we should not. It gets very windy, warm and dry. Once we are under the storm, and it starts to rain, we cannot make out its contours anymore.

We report: at last, the sky bears tidings of changing weather. Cirrus and cirrocumulus, our expert reminds us, often precede a cold front, perhaps even a squall line. We hold hope for at least a little rain to clear the air; for now, the clouds keep on slowly aggregating.

We report at sunset: it is a rare night when we feel perfectly content, and perhaps even relieved, in watching the sun go down. Not an ounce of melancholy in our heart as the sky darkens. Our expert is putting water out for the birds amidst a chorus of crickets.

We report: there is a warm bit of wind tonight, but in comparison to the daytime temperatures, it feels like a crisp one. We find goosebumps on our arms. All of the outside smells have been stripped down to their earthiest components: hot dust, dry grass, salt.

We report: we watched rain approach on the radar for half an hour, but as it got close, we realised most of it had evaporated on the way. We were able to count the raindrops, more of a pitter than a pitter-patter. Ultimately, we did lose of few degrees, a tear into this hot day.

We report: just before noon, though the shade is hard to find, it is not yet too hot to step outside. We cheer on the clouds a little, but try as they would, they would not be thick enough to block anything. Later on, the sun seems to come in through the keyhole and mail slot.

We report: we find sleep to be a difficult affair with the heatwaves of late. We toss and turn, nonsensically wishing our pillows had more sides so we could find a cold surface to lay our head on. We dream of insomnia, and wake up to the sun already risen, once more.