CIRCLE WITH A DOT

We report: because of the ambiguity of the light at this time of day, we wondered what was cloud and what was sky for a second. Once we managed to focus our eyes, we finally could see the filaments of steam billowing through the sunset fluorescence. Soon, it all withered away.

We report late in the morning: the weather is perfectly typical today, temperatures not one degree above or below the maximum and minimum average for the season. We find genuine and profound thrill in this medium, mediocre, conventional, common, classic bit of normality.

We report: It is jarringly sunny today, to the point we cannot help but bring it up in all our conversations. We are standing downwind to a rapeseed field, and the flowers’ sticky smell is permeating the air. It remains in the back of our nose when we walk away.

We report during the half hour in the evening when birds cannot help but sing. Recently, a few more species have joined the sparrows that kept on chirping through winter. We can only really pick out the blackbirds in the mix. It gets late, and dark, and the birds do not quiet.

We report: new moon on a clear night. Since the last time we saw the stars like this, a lot has changed. Some of them are gone, new ones have appeared. We ought to remember what spring constellations look like, but we barely do. It is too cold to try and jog our memory tonight.

We report in between rolling waves: it is difficult to tell the difference between rain and ocean spray. Our expert is walking in front of us, and we cannot make out a word they say. There is all around enough chaos that we eventually yield to the weather, and head back home.

We report: no sharp edges on the clouds today, nothing ever very committed or decisive in their movements. We walk alongside a few of them, and it is a leisurely pace. On the way, they repeatedly dissolve and build back up to the same fuzzy shapes, and we never get anywhere.

We report a few minutes after the sun has gone down: the sky has been hazy all day long for some reason. Because of the surprisingly low volume of humidity, our expert thinks this could be dust, or sand suspended in the air. As a result, the sun was sunset orange for a long time.

We report: it is a real, authentic drizzly morning. It is raining just enough for the surface of the water to break. The air is layered with the smell of wet earth, pond water, and whatever is unique to this specific morning. We see something move underneath the duckweed.

We report: there is some kind of symphony composing itself in the sky this morning. We can almost hear how it goes just by looking at it, abstract sheet music changing from second to second. It is a little colder than the past few days, and the wind feels bracing.

We report at the end of a strange, warm, sunny day. We spent it attempting to reconcile our idea of an early March day with the lukewarm wind we felt on our face. As the sun is setting, the crisp humidity is swallowing half of the thermometer in one fell swoop.

We report: come March, the moon starts moving out of range of our window, and it becomes a bit more difficult to seek it out. Even then, it is impossible to miss the way the sky becomes brighter and brighter every night in its waxing. Tonight, we lean far over the windowsill.

We report on one of the first few days of meteorological spring: we are slowly getting reacquainted with the intermittent presence of the sun. It is so far quite content to remain at a distance. We look for rays to walk into wherever we can, and they are rare and thin.

We report: we are almost late somewhere, and we certainly do not have time to linger, but we found some supercilium clouds in the windy sky. This is an unofficial classification for short-lived, eyebrow-shaped clouds. We take the risk to keep watching them embrace the airflow.

We report: the sun is rising earlier still, but we do not feel as exhausted in the morning light as we did a few weeks ago. There are minuscule leaves sprouting from a branch outside of the kitchen window, and we watch them unfurl with disproportionate intensity.