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We report in the brittle sunset light: we watch the clock in the evening lately. With only a few days left in May, we pay extra attention to how much sunlight we get, and like a patient stretch, we do see the minutes add up. Just a little bit more day, every day.

We report: over the mountains, the clouds march forever, snagging on the tops, filing them down with the use of rain and time. It is the oldest story that clouds can tell, and it has not ended yet. We do our part by retracing the steps that others have walked before us.

We report: the sky is swelling with dark clouds, ones that feed on the humidity and the thick warmth that has been brewing through the afternoon. No matter how fast we walk, we cannot seem to get away from the shadows of the developing storm. It is not raining yet.

We report: in the small hours of the morning, we caught a few fairies dancing far above the storm. They immediately hid from view again, obviously self-conscious of our noticing them. Our expert whispered about transient luminous events, as though afraid of spooking them away.

We report from our front door: we had not expected the sun to be quite so shy on the first day of meteorological summer. The clouds are sweeping the sky at a great pace, and the gale raises a few shivers in us. We dare say it is a little bit cold even when the sun comes out.

We report: in this place, the air smells warm, the ground is dry, and dust collects on rearview mirrors. Our expert resisted the urge to draw something there. We saw the wheat growing past our knees in the fields. None of the clouds came on the wind today.

We report a little late in the day: every time we look at the sky, the wind shear is taking it to different places, and simultaneously too. As a result of these contradictory movements, we see a display of the Kelvin-Helmholtz instability, rolling waves crowning the clouds.

We report: these long days keep on getting longer, and the sun lingers at the door while the clouds bruise purple and pink. The moon struggles to find room in the interlude, but we feel exactly in the right place in this instant, our shoulders damp with evening drizzle.

We report under the fastest clouds that we have seen in some time: it is a dry morning, which we are thankful for given this wild wind. It feels quite pleasant when we step outside, even though our hair is very much in our face. Flashes of pink light catch us through the clouds.

We report: this is the full 22° halo that we have been looking for all day, though we did notice a lone sun dog earlier. We feel justified in thinking the cirrus layer was just right for its formation. We wonder if it is true that these halos announce future storms.

We report as the rain just reaches a steady pace: it is no storm, but it is not a small amount of water. The sky is so opaque that the vibrant blue of yesterday seems like a distant memory. The low whistle of the rain accompanies us through the day.

We report: sometime after the moon has set, and before sunrise, the mist over the ocean begins to get thicker. It slowly seizes the starlight, and the waves become harder to discern. We hear the water swirling nearby, and we wonder if we are imagining it getting louder.

We report while the warmth of the afternoon is dissipating, the mix in temperatures in the air confusing our senses. The smells of early summer are strong in the fading light, grass, warm gravel, and the scent that is indescribable, but unique to this time of the year.

We report: here in the undergrowth, the ground is mottled with sun spots, and the sky only appears where the trees are willing to part. We look up only every now and then as we try to watch our step between brambles and stinging nettles, but the cirrus do not appear to move much.

We report in the nervous energy at the end of a hot afternoon: all the critters are buzzing around, the humidity is cloying, and the sky is scrunching up like it is gearing up for something. Only, when the storm bursts, the thunder booms but once, and then wisps itself away.

We report: the storm water lies still in puddles which have grown to pond size in some spots. As we walk around marshy waters, we see clouds rise from the ground, rain and dew from last night taking up their sky journey anew in their evaporation. It smells like more rain ahead.

We report somewhere between two shades of pink: brand new clouds have been appearing since day break, and most of them have not moved since. Despite the absence of movement up there, it is windy down here. The gulls are endlessly circling the shore, riding the gale.

We report about dissolving cirrocumulus. We find they are transitory; they have the elegance of cirrus, and the chaotic nature of cumulus. Forming at high altitudes, they still contain liquid water. As creatures of contradiction, they do not tend to stick around too long.

We report: this morning, the clouds are crawling as low and as languidly as possible in the sky. The sun rises so early these days, yet it seems that we are taking our sweet time catching up to it. It feels like the bite in the air is setting us back a few weeks in the season.

We report: despite the dew collecting on spiderwebs, the breeze is surprisingly dry. It has not rained in a few days, and even some of the deeper puddles have been steadily vanishing. In half-light, the bats fly low under the cover of the trees, a quiet ballet.