We report in the early afternoon, when the sun is still high and white. Something has changed in the atmospheric pressure, after weeks of the same. We do not know the exact correlation between all these warm, cold fronts, anticyclones and depressions… But we know it is cold now.

We report: the sunset is on the wind, the colours are moving down its flow. There is sun in our eyes, somehow, even though we are almost certain that it ought to be behind the horizon by now. We watch a paper bag tumble down the street with an odd sense of awe.

We report on a day that we stumbled through, tired, our mind stuck somewhere else. Only now, with the stars above our head, do we feel a little awake. Distant houses watch us with their orange eyes, but we do not feel observed, and we find our solace in this darkness.

We report: after the fact, we think we drove through the rainbow, or by it, or under it. We cannot recall how it went exactly, although there were a lot of light and colours, and the rain glittered. And then, the rainbow faded so soon anyway, the whole moment felt like a dream.

We report in a moment of infinite sky, when the bird that is flying the highest looks like it might be in outer space, a minuscule white dot floating among the highest cirrus of the atmosphere. It makes us take a big breath, knowing that we could not possibly run out of air.

We report: some clouds have taken it upon themselves to kickstart the sunset before the rest of the sky. First, the threads of gold that snag onto our eyelashes, and then the rush of humidity that takes hold of the air. We feel sparks and shivers in the crook of our neck.

We report in the tall grass that remains when ferns have dried up and wilted. There is a skylark practicing its lilting flight across the meadows, the only moving part of this hushed morning. We follow the desire paths of foxes and boars along the trees, trying to dodge cobwebs.

We report: we stepped out of the train station, and the whole sky fell on our head, all at once, and it was hail, too. We considered walking in that weather for a second, but the sky continued on falling, so we decided against it. We stood there, dripping on the tiled floor.

We report in the deep afternoon, which is not very deep these days - one step to the side, and the sunset already grabs us by our feet. In the meantime, there is something really good in the clouds today, in their willingness to bloom into the light. We remember why we look up.

We report: a lot of the time, when we think about November during all the other months of the year, it is something like this; that or the rain, but there has not been as much of that so far. In this way, as all our memories match up, we live in all of our Novembers at once.

We report in the complete absence of the sun: it is as dark as we remember it from previous nights, when the sun also was not there. We are counting all the other suns that we are now able to observe. Our expert insists that we do not need to count stars every time we see them.

We report: even with the weight of the sky, the clouds are rushing by. There is no time even for rain now, only the obfuscation of daylight, and the impression of a torrent streaming across the sky. The same few spots of blue curiously remain open through it all.

We report in the mid-afternoon light, which it seems is in fact the evening light. The sun is trailing along behind low clouds, casting a golden something in the air. Our expert‘s coat is too thick for the mild temperature, but they insist on wearing it, visibly red in the face.

We report: there is a weight to this morning, like the day was fully formed as soon as there was light in the sky. The sunrise does not hold for our waking up, so we have to be here with our eyes very open, and our mind very alert. We left the smell of coffee and toast behind.

We report: since the sky is oddly bright, we look for the moon, finding it pretending to be full (as you do). It sits in knots of cirrus, like a particularly talented spider on its web. Our expert gasps at the discovery of a moon dog, brilliant remanence of second-hand sunshine.

We report as the wind picks up in the mountains: here where the trees are rare and frail thing, the thinnest breeze sweeps us over such that it is difficult to walk against the tide. Rain breaks through the clouds in short bursts. We do our best not to get our hair in our mouth.

We report: November emerges in the sunshine, almost too bright to believe. Through the curtains, the light had that golden glow of a low autumn sun. We begin to see some brown among the trees that have not been shaken out by the wind. The cackle of a jay follows us on our walk.

We report in the wake of the hundredth shower of this day. We almost slipped on wet, dead leaves earlier, and we are now very busy watching our feet, lingering adrenaline tickling our fingers. Even then, we stop to look up every few steps, hungry for the dying light.

We report: the night came faster for the thick cover of the clouds, and even faster for the looming trees above us. In search of the way back, we looked for familiar landmarks, but only found glowing eyes in the deepening shadows. The wind washed out all the sounds of the night.

We report: amidst the fluttering of thousands of wings, we spot some kind of vulture circling the murmuration. Every time it attempts a strike, the cloud of birds dissipates, and immediately, smoothly finds its shape again. Eventually, after a long time, it seems to get tired.

We report: a well of light dances on the water far away. The wind unhurriedly moves the clouds, and the patterns of the shade are predictable. Our expert stirs us towards the sunshine, and we immediately feel the heat high on our cheeks. The seabirds flee on our approach.

We report of a sunset that has been over-steeped, whatever sweet taste of it already drowned in the night. We take it, the way we try to take everything we can of the sky. Our expert talks about atmospheric refraction, and the fact that the sun has long set already.

We report: the moon is in the sky again, only just dipping into the chilly night before it sets in a few hours. The clouds are spreading out along invisible patterns, like a flock of birds scouring the horizon. The air is redolent with damp wood, and the deep scent of the mire.

We report in deep October, standing between two storm cells. The clouds rain well, assiduous in the task, and we are well-rained upon, impressed with the efficiency of the whole apparatus. We longed for this in the summer, so we try to enjoy it to the height of our expectations.

We report: the humidity and the wind are working together so that walking out felt like a cold shower. We sucked in a breath and went back in to get a scarf. The cirrus overhead had that perfectly incomprehensible, chaotic quality to them, unraveling and colliding at every turn.

We report on the morning after the storm: we were woken up with hail showers in the night, and the south wind rattled the tiles on the roof in a way we had not heard before. It is still windy, but it is the kind of wind that chases clouds away instead of stirring up a tempest.

We report: during a secret few minutes, late at night (so late it is close to being early), the stars are out. We wonder whether we fell asleep, as it was raining a moment ago, and we know for certain it should be raining again very soon. We spend a long time looking for a cloud.

We report as the wind seems intent on accelerating the fall of autumn leaves. We watch them swirl in small eddies. Our expert was looking at the patterns of atmospheric pressure earlier, and we heard them emit a low whistle at the counterclockwise spiral over our area.

We report: these clouds are so high up, we drive for miles and miles and are able to watch the wind braid them in the exact same spot in the sky. We call our expert at home, and they see the same clouds; we describe them several times over in different ways to make sure.

We report in the aftermath of a rainy day: we had been waiting for a good, long stretch of rain for many days. We watch it go a little too fast, we think. Now the sunset rings out on the glistening asphalt, wrung out clouds still dripping a little, shredded in the wind.

We report: our train was running late enough that we thought we might as well walk. We watched the sky darken with the evergreen mid-autumn question of “when did nightfall start coming so soon?” on our mind. Little by little, while we were looking elsewhere, is the answer.

We report as the afternoon is beginning to wither away: it was windy when we got here, and our face is still ruddy from it, our hair still out of sorts. Now, the sea is still, and the waves barely stir the pebbles on the shore. We hear the oystercatchers over the quiet.

We report: we come across a flower field, and in the mid-October light, it feels odd, a little out of place. There are bumblebees and wasps about, and the flowers are especially fragrant in the sunshine. The yellowing trees in the distance anchor us back in the season.

We report in the kind of weather that is not demonstrably cold, but that is felt to be cold because of our state of tiredness. The sun is not yet where we think it should be, and we are not where we ought to be anymore (fast asleep, in our bed). We must do with the disconnect.

We report: first light, then second, and third, and the morning is finally beginning to come into existence. There is a light drizzle, we think - we have not set foot outside yet. Leaning on the windowsill, we can smell damp, and other, less describable things of autumn.

We report here on these open flat lands: we have not felt wind like this in months, all push and no pull making us stumble over our own feet. The air is dry, not even very cold, all things considered; but the wind is stealing every word that comes out of our mouth.

We report: late afternoon by autumn standards, the yellow sun meets yellow leaves. In some places, we see the colours change every day, but on certain trees, the transition seemingly happens overnight. We look up, wary of the numerous mast year chestnuts that fall all around us.

We report on this mild October night: if the planes went somewhere nice, the sky forgot where exactly a while ago. The breeze has methodically swept over their paths again and again so that none of them make sense, and the contrails have become new kinds of clouds by now.

We report: the dregs of the evening pass us by, quiet, flat sound waves reverberating across the fields. Our expert dropped their keys as they took their hands out of their pockets, and we are now hunched over the ground with our torch lights, looking for a glint in the grass.

We report in unmoving dampness: the clouds are low, an opaque mass that has absorbed the entirety of the sky. With the clouds closer to the top of our head, we move around the world a little more gingerly, like we have a duty not to disturb the repose of the sky lake.

We report: the sun leaks into the sky, and we find its echoes in the clouds for a long time after. We hear the hiss of high voltage arcing as we watch, and we wonder if some turning off and back on is in order. Some of the troubleshooting pages are missing from the manual.

We report as the tide comes in under the sunrise: there is more gold in the sun now that autumn is settling in. Dawn pours in one drop at a time, and remains there in the air for a long time. The moon is still in the sky, facing the sun in an age-old standoff.

We report: we stumble upon the full moon, and out of nowhere, we get a sense of scale for a fraction of a second. We get vertigo as we realise how big the moon is, and how far away it is. Then, a cloud floats in front of it, and the moon becomes a yellow circle in the sky again.

We report as the storm cell is getting away: we did not stumble upon this rainbow by chance. We noticed the sudden onslaught of rain, and the way light was pouring down at the same time. The rainbow was exactly where we expected it to be; we had only thought it would be bigger.

We report 2023 days of Reports From Unknown Places! I usually like to take milestones as excuses to try something new and confusing with Reports. This year, I missed the 5-year anniversary back in March, so the 2000 days anniversary had to be extra new and confusing.

We report: in another place, the sky remains this blue most of the day. The clouds appear out of thin air, and fade back without causing much disruption, barely approaching the sun during their short-lived existences. The air is dry, even quite warm when we stand in the sunshine.

11:25 PM: we trudge along fresh puddles on the way home. There is light from somewhere far away keeping the horizon awake.

10:39 PM: the fog rises, real fog that wraps around our legs and trips us when we are not paying attention. With the sky sitting on our shoulders,

9:08 PM: that we left behind at dawn. We hear the temperature drop and the humidity grow in the louder sounds of traffic. In the shadows,

8:00 PM: the grey clouds dissolve into the blue of dusk, losing shade after shade in the ocean. We return to the cold