Reports From Unknown Places
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Reports From Unknown Places
@clever-reports.bsky.social
Reports From Unknown Places About Indescribable Events

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We report during an interlude, as the sky is making quick and important changes to its configuration. There used to be large mammatus there, those round clouds that sometimes accompany storm cells. The wind is now shaking them loose to make room for something new.
February 10, 2026 at 11:29 PM
We report: mid-afternoon, we are now allowed to witness some of the goings-on of the higher parts of the sky. The cirrus are practicing the slowest of dances, unlike the greyer, wetter, faster clouds that we know intimately these days. The sunshine is a little dizzying.
February 9, 2026 at 11:24 PM
We report: one in a few sunsets, the clouds will turn particularly pink for a few minutes after the sun has gone down. We remember that our expert told us this was caused by Rayleigh scattering, but we do not feel like thinking about Rayleigh scattering at the moment.
February 8, 2026 at 11:55 PM
We report: there are a few more birds hanging around at nightfall lately, and it was almost not cold on our way home. We know better than to think this will stick for very long, seeing as it is still early February, and we do not want to leave February unappreciated.
February 7, 2026 at 10:43 PM
We report in the midst of a hail shower: the hailstones are large, and fast, and we are having trouble hearing our expert over how loud they are. It is a while before the sound of thunder registers beneath it all, and we get away from the trees. The storm is coming our way.
February 6, 2026 at 11:17 PM
We report: it is morning, as close to sunny as this day will get. There is a ring around the sun, frozen into the clouds. We have opened the window, and invited the wind inside; it is chilly, and we are shivering a little, but the air feels drier than it has been in months.
February 5, 2026 at 10:04 PM
We report about a few minutes at the end of the afternoon that we almost missed. There is the smallest window of time when sunset light hits a rooftop window just right, and on the best of days, it catches our eye. This is one of these days. Something lifts off our chest.
February 4, 2026 at 11:11 PM
We report: it is not very late yet, but the cloud cover is such that it is already completely dark. The snow is falling in slow motion, the path of each flake impossible to predict, and we do try. We find in the snowfall the sound of the ocean at night, immense and quiet.
February 3, 2026 at 11:57 PM
We report under lively skies: the atmospheric pressure forecast maps looked strange this morning. There were high-pressure areas stuck between low-pressure areas, and the patterns of diverging winds that emerged made little sense to us. The resulting weather is adequately odd.
February 3, 2026 at 12:12 AM
We report: our expert has been complaining of a pebble in their shoe for a bit; they take a moment to sort it out when the rain lets up. As we look up, the clouds are moving to the same pace as our breathing, travelling from one end of the sky to the other in great strides.
February 1, 2026 at 11:27 PM
We report on the dawn of the last day of the month. While we were there in January, we got bruises and scratches, we slept late and forgot our to-do lists. We are still here, alive and well, which bodes alright for the rest of the year. The wind is louder than our whole mind.
January 31, 2026 at 11:31 PM
We report: it has been humid all winter, in various ways and at different degrees. Tonight, the air is completely saturated with water, and our breath is fogging up blue against the sky. Our expert finds good numbers, like the high dew point, and the 100% relative humidity.
January 31, 2026 at 12:19 AM
We report during rainy golden hour: we got to a high point expecting a rainbow that is not coming. We can wait a little bit longer if the rain does not get much heavier. In the meantime, we watch a flock of gulls shimmering in the distance, loud even from this far away.
January 30, 2026 at 1:11 AM
We report: this afternoon, most of the clouds are mingling in the distance. This state of things has become a little bit foreign to us over the past few months. We find our mind heading towards spring for a moment, as an experiment, just to test the feel of it.
January 28, 2026 at 11:32 PM
We report: all the rivers left their beds last night, and some fields are now ponds, and the ponds are now lakes. All day long, we have seen and heard water around us in places it should not be, and it rained and hailed again, too. It is late when the clouds part for good.
January 27, 2026 at 11:23 PM
We report: last days of January, and winter still has a long way to go. We see between scrawny trees the extra hour of daylight that has been earned back, and we really, really cling to it. The wind has a whistling, howling quality that we only hear around this time of the year.
January 26, 2026 at 11:47 PM
We report from a hollow in a cloud: extremely cold at this height, but everything is light and shade, and we cannot see the ground from here. The cloud where we are is at mid-altitude, but we watch it expand above us, and we watch the lower clouds move very fast beneath our feet.
January 25, 2026 at 11:55 PM
We report: the sun is obscured by the clouds, but there is a bright castaway to the side - almost brighter than the sun itself. The weather has been frazzled all day, so we came out in full rain gear, but the scales will not dip one way or another. We end up needing sunglasses.
January 24, 2026 at 11:02 PM
We report at dawn, in a place where it does not snow very often. Our expert attempted to wake us up when the snow was falling in the middle of the night, but we did not even remember it upon waking up. We slept well, so we cannot bring to ourselves to regretting it too badly.
January 23, 2026 at 11:50 PM
We report: we heard somewhere that the moon is pulling away from Earth at the rate of 3.8 centimetres a year. All around, we know this will not amount to a noticeable difference over the span of our life. We still think we ought to find a way to bring it back closer to us.
January 22, 2026 at 11:08 PM
We report under especially cloudy clouds. When the clouds are like this, we have a hard time thinking back to a time when the sky was blue (though it was only yesterday). Curiously, there is not even a hint of precipitation; it is cloudy simply for the sake of it.
January 21, 2026 at 11:40 PM
We report: this morning, the clouds weigh nothing, and the sun is high. It is so bright outside that it is a while before we can fully open our eyes, but it is hard to feel irritated when the light feels so invigorating. There is excited chatter between two blackbirds in a tree.
January 20, 2026 at 11:33 PM
We report on the train: it is a little too early for the sunset, so the overhead lights are still off, but this surely is sunset light already. The specks of dust and old rain stains on the windows are glitter. Across the aisle, our expert’s face is outlined in gold.
January 19, 2026 at 11:51 PM
We report: we chance a last look at the sky before going to sleep, out of habit. We think we know it will be too cloudy to see anything, but we can never go to bed without a last look. We remember why that it is upon seeing the stars. A bit of fog moves between constellations.
January 19, 2026 at 12:22 AM
We report in the shadow of this large, dark cloud: there was hail earlier, and we know this is hail again. We should perhaps get out of its path, but we feel hypnotised by the way this cloud is eating the light, the ravenous thing. Its underbelly seems to dip from its own weight.
January 17, 2026 at 11:51 PM