We report: as it does not rain, the sky is folded and scrunched and stretched into elusive shapes. The wind goes one way, and again the other way; it is all conflict and begrudging compromise in the meetings of the clouds. Our expert has the marks of binoculars around their eyes.

We report while the clouds take flight: the wind blows from the southwest following an air pressure drop. It is fierce, loud, setting the sky alight in its wake. We hear whistles as it weaves through the trees, howls when it tries to get under the roof of our home.

We report: the clouds know something we do not about the morning. They are in a time zone of their own, living long minutes ahead into the future. It, at least, looks quite bright from what we can tell. We feel inclined to use those minutes for a little more sleep.

We report on a long walk: though the sky before us is some shade of clear, we keep looking over our shoulder to the one behind us. It is a silent beast that bites our ankles, its cold breath on the nape of our neck growing closer and closer. There is no escaping this one.

We report: the cirrus are waves today, sea foam and salt washing up on the shore of the sky. We hear the backwash in the wind, and the gulls dive into this ocean all the very same. The tide is coming in, and the air is crisp and biting. We dissolve in the eddies of the big blue.

We report in the collapse of the evening: it is so windy that we think the clouds are going to come in through the window. We have no room for clouds, so we have no choice but to close it. It was too cold anyway. The birds struggle to choose the direction that they are flying in.

We report not too long after sunset: this is what they call a heat lightning - it is not heat lightning, it is simply very far away, further than it looks to be. The thunder is dissipating before we are able to hear any of it, much more fickle than the light show on the horizon.

We report: it is impossible to predict the weather to come. There is a total absence of signs or hints as to any future precipitation or change in temperature. We are asking questions, and our expert is perplexed. The humongous cloud on the approach is absolutely no help.

We report in the last bright moments of the afternoon: a little bit of the summer sun has returned today, that golden warmth that almost seems to come from inside us. Still, the ground is saturated with rain, and in the shade, the humidity is bright and tangible.

We report: we think we know where the sun is going to rise from. The stakes are not very high on this bet, and we could simply use a compass to be certain; the fact of the matter is that we would like to see the sun emerge from behind these clouds, and know we were correct.

We report: as we were looking for some constellation or the other, the mist slowly started to thicken. The moonlight was catching in it, making it easier to see the movements of the masses of humidity, patterns of smoke in the crisp night air. Our canvas shoes were getting wet.

We report three minutes after it stopped raining, and four minutes before it starts raining: we have never had such a clear understanding of the reason why cumulonimbus incus are called "anvil clouds". As we report, it is still expanding further against the tropopause.

We report: the clouds are shattering, breaking away piece by piece, and we are trying to listen for it. We can already feel the next bout of rain coming in - it is the wind again, impatient, unhappy to let the sky be after a whole summer of steady heat and naked blue.

We report about the clouds that grew this tall only so they could get more light than everything, and everyone else. Our expert, shorter than we are, calls them greedy. We think they are practical. It is colder than it has been in months. Eventually, darkness falls everywhere.

We report: a lone crow is picking at crabs and seaweed on the beach before a flock of gulls makes its loud appearance. The gale comes to die on the shore, gentle waves that rattle the pebbles. It was much windier at sunset. It seems a long way til sunrise yet.

We report around noon, after most of the morning was occupied by series of showers. Our expert has been coming in and out of the rain, hopeful to get a good look at the side profile of the clouds; now, at last, the lull in weather is allowing mammatus to show.

We report: far off the coast, warm and cold fronts are spinning into one another in cyclogenesis. Somehow, as a result of the flapping of these large butterfly wings, mare’s tails are multiplying in the sky, wherever it is coldest. There are talks of precipitation on the wind.

We report at sundown: we saw the light change even as we were hearing rain on the rooftop, so we hurried out. It was not instantaneous; the rainbow appeared slowly, from left to right, and then it stayed for a long time, varying in its intensity. We watched it go, too.

We report: the windows are streaked with early morning rain, drowning the clouds behind them. When we go out, a car almost immediately splashes us with gutter water, and we try very hard not to see it as a bad omen. It is not as cold as we had anticipated; the rain has stopped.

We report one or two rain drops on the back of our hand, and certainly a handful more elsewhere that we have no evidence of. The clouds are still gathering, so nothing has started in earnest, but the horizon is a blur in the distance. We feel confident in what this entails.