We report from the doorstep, while towel-drying our hair: we left the door open when we came in. The rain is falling straight down, crackling static scrambling the horizon. Our eyes keep shifting back to the spot of sunshine in the distance, wondering if it is raining over there.

We report: when the night falls today, it is indisputably a fall indeed. Between one moment and the next, a great extent of darkness comes into existence. It is a volume of nothingness that so completely eclipses the light that we briefly understand the concept of "void".

We report with the setting sun behind our back, the thinnest belt of Venus in front of us. Today was mild, not only in temperature, but in much of everything; muted colours, a half-hearted motion towards rain, our expert's hushed tones as they speak about alpenglow.

We report on a brittle January morning: the dew point is rather low, and along with the wind, we think that we might freeze solid if we stay out too long. We count the handful of remaining stars in the sky, and the air inexplicably smells like dawn, brisk and sweet.

We report: while the sky is doing its best to swallow itself through its impossible maw, the hail starts falling. It is, at first, a handful of pebbles on the roof, but once it gets going for good, the sound is almost deafening. The afternoon is stitched out of these showers.

We report about these dusk-tinged days around the solstice. They are brittle little things, the wobbly light threatening to go out upon the smallest disturbance. We go about our afternoon with careful steps, lest the whole things blinks out. The soft clouds stretch forevermore.

We report: a truce with the rain, tonight, and from what we can tell, the clouds are more sparse than they have been in quite a few nights. Nonetheless, the persistent wind has not stopped blowing for the past week, and it happily pulls tears and snot from our ruddy face.

me, litteraly

We report in the few loose minutes before dawn, the ones that we all pretend to count carefully as though we were able to measure that stretch of time. We are sitting in the grass with our expert as they take notes, slowly realising they were lying about how dry the ground is.

We report: the shape comes into view slowly, a mirage over the trees. From a distance, it is difficult to remember that each dot represents a single bird. Barely a wing out of formation, the single movement of a wave coming in and going out on the fields. It makes sense, somehow.