We report: evening, a drizzle. Even through the light rain, this sunset seems remarkably late in the day, now that April is coming to a close. The clouds are pooling overhead, but many parts of the sky remain clear. A blackbird hops around, cheerful trills in the dying light.

We report in the last dregs of the night: this waning gibbous moon is making its way down to the horizon, while we painfully attempt to make our way up. Half of the city is awake and busy - we would not mind belonging to the second half for a little while longer, asleep and idle.

We report: we are having trouble making sense of the clouds today. Whenever we attempt to follow a swirl, the way it bends hurts our eyes, and we lose track of the shapes. The barometer has had a significant drop; we blame it for any strange behaviour we might witness.

We report about a curiously vertical cumulus shooting out for the heights of the atmosphere. We are suspecting a certain amount of humid, warm air that is pushing up the steam. It is well on its way to becoming a cumulus congestus, if it keeps developing this way.

We report: the sun is falling down, but it is all going to be alright. It is going to get colder, but it will be alright. And the shade grows to take our shoulders and our neck, but we will be fine when our head disappears too. Ah, but in our sleep, we will dream of the sun.

We report after staying alone in the dark for too long: it is a nice thought that after the Sun burns out, so many of those stars will be left. So that the small handful of minerals that is in our ribcage and our teeth and nails may yet be part of something else, in a long time.

We report: quite early, we are taking a look at the weather for the first time today. It seems that much time has been spent stacking clouds over the night, some sort of misshapen pile of grey that could topple over at any point. We do not know how we are to sort this out.

We report after a silent storm, the air remains confused, all jumbled up. Cold air is descending, the wind is twisting up and sideways, and there is a bit of rain, but only in very specific spots. The light wanes on us as a signal to wrap it all up. Let us settle down now.

We report: we were having a pleasant walk at sunset, lovely, even. Around the time we started to lose light, we tripped on a rock and scraped our knee. Nothing too bad; the walk remained quite nice, and we got a fashionable rip on our trousers, plus a little blood on our sock.

We report about the green sky before the sun rose this morning. All the sparrows in the hedges have been emboldened by the spring, these days; louder than ever, they will not flee even when we walk a little too close to them. The swallows, however, still give us a wide berth.

We report: even the rainbow seems a little washed-out in this rain. This cumulonimbus has been maturing over a long time, and there is finally some precipitation that we can see. It has been long enough, in fact, that we have managed to put some distance between the storm and us.

We report about our moon in broad daylight. We heard something interesting happened with the moon recently. Our expert told us that it barged into the sky, and caused a bit of a ruckus. We can relate; last week, we accidentally slammed a door in the middle of the night. Awkward!

We report: our expert has been experience hay fever, and their eyes and nose are running running running all the time. We bring them tissues and try not to bless them every time they sneeze. The flowers rushed to bloom these past weeks, as though some were scared of being last.

We report between one breath and the next: colours are not burnt out yet, there are a handful lying around there. In just a beat, the day will have been consumed, down to the very last bit of candlewick. We are trying to cram all our hopes and dreams into that last second.

We report: the sky was a uniform, light grey all afternoon, and it rained throughout, fat, heavy drops. These clouds come after the rain. Smoky, sooty little things that hasten across the sky while our sodden trousers slowly dry. The flowers drop low to the ground, full of rain.

We report in the company of gulls and their snide shrieks: warmest day of the year so far for us and our expert. The sky is full of contrails. They endure the wind, remain unmoving, but become gossamer-thin in time. They all, eventually, fade back into the sky.

We report: every morning around this time, as we lie in bed, we hear someone walk down the street in high heels. Their pace is always about the same, fast but not quite urgent. These days, the sun rises at the same time; barely awake, pink light streaming in, high heels clicking.

We report in recent news about our night sky: lately, it is Capella that we see through our window after sun down. For this reason, we would like to personally congratulate Capella. Great job being one of our regulars, Capella! You are doing your constellation (Auriga) proud.

We report: the sky has welled up in strange tears. We only saw them because we are always looking for odd shapes in the clouds; these slightly ominous ones faded in and out of the grey quite gracefully. The rain picked up again once they were out of sight, carried by the wind.

We report about the loveliest, kindest paths in the sky that unfurl easily over long moments. They are weak and fragile, yet they stay. We watch them remain still, way up there, while everything moves under them. Then, they start diluting slowly, washed over in the sunshine.