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.

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.

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.

We report: the whole sky is rising all at once, all the clouds suddenly competing for height. We did not perceive whatever changed in the atmosphere to make this happen, but the flies are nervous, the dogs are barking, and the birds are flying low. We wonder where the ceiling is.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

We report: we had a busy, fast day, until we sat down here below the sky. Though it is somewhat windy, the clouds seem to be moving at their slowest, and within minutes we found our breathing trying to match the same pace. The sun is quietly setting at the other end of the sky.

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.

We report: the morning clouds are slowly dissipating, and the light that they were catching is now spilling out onto the ground, puddles of sunshine everywhere. We shall soon pause our cloud-watching session, as our eyes are watering from the brightness.

We report: we cannot find any clouds today, but it is windy enough that we do not feel completely crushed by the weight of the sun. We watch the swallows play some sort of musical chairs game on the phone lines, to the sound of dry ferns swaying in the breeze.

We report: there is a lot of convection going on for the early morning, lifting up the clouds much higher than where we are used to seeing them at this hour. We feel like we missed out on a lot of weather already, which is an unpleasant note on which to start the day.

We report after the last train, in the empty station. We punched in the code for a can of iced tea on the vending machine, and it came out lukewarm. We shared it with our expert while the stars rose from the ground, the fields before us unfathomable in the twilight.

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.

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.