We report: late afternoon, the wind is dishevelling the clouds. This is one hour of sunshine in the rainiest winter we have ever encountered, which makes it very precious, even as the humidity is still permeating the air. Even our expert does not say a word about upcoming rain.

We report in the dusty, dusty evening. The way this day is waning is through a succession of layers of night. All of them are thin enough that there never is an exact moment when we can declare the conclusion of the day. Once we make it back home, the dust finally settles.

We report: it was dark when we started walking. We cannot help but imagine the places we were as still hidden in the night, with the street lamps still on. Here, in this slice of time, the sun is about to rise, unobscured in its ascent for the first time in many days.

We report upon finding the sun in the rain: it makes no rainbow behind our back, but we forgive it easily for that. Later, when it is gone, we miss it, and even later, when it comes back, we are grateful. All throughout, it keeps on raining all the kinds of rain we know.

We report on the shore after a busy weather day: there is a truce, somewhat. Though we can see cumulonimbus and other likely rainy episodes float on the horizon, they pass us by in the driest way they are able to. Our expert is looking for stones to skim, and failing to find any.

We report: it is late at night, and the wind is just now waking up. We jumped awake to the crash of a dustbin falling to its side, and when we went to see what happened, the street was eerily quiet, as though the gale was feeling guilty about it. It picked right up a bit later.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.