We report after a shower of fine hail: we thought the night would have well and truly fallen once the sky cleared. We now realise that since the solstice, we have gained a handful of minutes of sunlight. It is still practically nothing, but we are eager to notice these things.

We report: there is a lunar corona tonight, and this is the first time we are able to observe one so closely. When it is a solar corona, even the darkest of sunglasses cannot help us see it. We feel just fine watching the moon; we only have to accept that it is looking back.

We report well-immersed in the brand new clouds of the brand new year. And it is what it is, because the year is so very new, everything in it is quite new, including the mud from yesterday's walk, still caked on our boots. We try to hold on to the shininess of the moment.

We report: this is a bluebird day. It went below freezing last night, and when we got out this morning, there were icicles on branches, and a thin layer of ice on puddles. The sky is big and empty; we can only assume this year is all out of clouds, which is only fair.

We report from high in the clouds, where there is warmth in the perishing light, and where things move fast in a way that makes sense. For this little while, we do not think about the tiredness of dark days, and the languor that the cold has wrapped our bones in.

We report: we have seen this bright, bright spot in the sky enough times over the past few days that we remembered to ask our expert what planet it is. This is Jupiter, bracketed by Gemini and Canis Minor. We spend some time imagining we can see the storm raging on its surface.

We report as we are losing blue sky to this cumulonimbus. It has been noted throughout the day that it is still quite cold, which our expert attributes to the mean sea-level pressure remaining high throughout the week. We think it should snow, if only because we would like it.

We report: the gorse shrubs are flowering under the cold sun in fat yellow blooms. The wind carries a smell of honey when we walk by too close, and the thorns catch in our hair and clothes. The blue sky falls in deep puddles in the middle of our path. We have to step around it.

We report a few minutes before sunset: it seems to us the sun has been hovering there for a long time. We almost fall on our face several times for our staring at it to the side, but it is simply not moving. But then, of course, we look away for a moment, and it disappears.

We report: all the snow and the ice came in the very last hours of the night. It is a paper thin layer on the ground, and it will likely melt when the sun comes out, but the view is arresting nonetheless. Our expert is trying hard to contain their excitement, unsuccessfully.

We report late in the morning: the clouds are taking root, big old trees casting enough shade to make it look like dusk. In the leaden sky, we find whispers of snow. It has been cold for days now, has had time to settle in. It burns our nose and the tips of our fingers.

We report: it has stopped raining, and the sky has cleared out some, but it is not quite sunny yet. The humidity is still shimmering in the air, even though the wind is now coming in strong; it is cold like this. The clouds are being diluted into liquid shapes up there.

We report at dawn, when the weather is about to turn - a sweet, pink sunrise like this, we know something has changed in the atmospheric pressure. This will be the first day during which we will not lose light since June. As usual, we do not see a difference, but we want to.

We report: in the very long night before nights start getting shorter, there are more stars than we have seen in some time. In the sharp chill of after midnight, we watch a stray child from the Geminids dash in between Castor and Pollux, and then it is gone for good.

We report back from the wettest walk we have had all year. At first, it was a drizzle, and it was a pleasant time. It got progressively heavier, until the rain started hitting our face head on. We came home with the impression that we had just narrowly avoided drowning.

We report: we had thought these clouds might expand into another form, but they seem to be collapsing instead. We have a thought towards the storm chaser we met last year, and we wonder how he deals with the clouds that do not make it to storms, how he fares in the off-season.

We report: at this late point in December, it is as though the sun is aware it only has a scarce few evenings left to make the best sunset of the year. And though we have adored every sunset since the beginning of January, we know we will call each one of those our new favourite.

We report: in the depths of bog country, the will-o’-the-wisps of distant city lights are keeping the sky three shades above full darkness. This is not enough light to observe the night life we hear, no matter how much we squint. We still think we see things move above the water.

We report halfway through the month-long sunset that is December. We go through the days trying out different flavours of endings, and in this continuous fade-out, rain is present on almost each of those days. We weave our way around curtains of water and light.

We report: we watch layers of air mingling along gravity waves. We hear a little bit of music in the frequency of the waves; harmonies resonate in the ebbing of the clouds. On the ground, the wind is also drawing tight ripples on puddles, small-scale practice for grander schemes.

We report late afternoon: we come out at sunset to look at distant squiggles caught in light. It is cold, and the sun goes quickly, so we are back inside within minutes. It is really good; our cheeks burn, our nose runs, and we are still smiling when we meet eyes in the mirror.

We report: the Geminid meteor shower peak has come around again. Like a tired running joke, though the sky was clear, it pulled a blanket onto itself in the evening, fair, understandable, so would we. The stars we see stay still, which is fine. We hope to see them fall next year.

We report mid-afternoon, on a hurry between two places. We do not even know whether it is raining or not at this point in time. We look out for the clouds at they pass over our head, but when we think we know their name, the light changes, and they emerge as different creatures.

We report: the wind is forming white horses on the open sea. Our expert thinks this is a 4 or a 5 on the Beaufort scale. We like it when our expert brings up scales and numbers, and when they are not quite descriptive enough. The sun skims the sea foam with low, timorous rays.

We report at dawn, when the sun is spitting out scoria into the sky before much light can even be seen. It seems a little brave, this kind of sunrise in December, when we know how scarce daylight is these days. It feels like the sun is making promises it cannot keep.

We report: all of the wind of these past few weeks has stripped the trees bare here. The ground is all mulch and rotting wood, and we are bound to get a foot stuck in there at some point tonight. With no leaves on the branches, and barely a breeze, the night is eerily quiet.

We report as we are waiting for the train. A small murmuration has risen from the trees, and has been drawing arabesques in the sky around us, like a pile of dead leaves scattered on the wind. It has been raining since the morning, a steady pour disguised as a light drizzle.

We report: it occurs to us as we are looking up that we might still be dreaming. There is a slight haze to the sky, and the light seems to be coming from very far away, soft around the edges. If is a little too cold for a dream, though, and this is what shakes us out of it.

We report somewhere between rain clouds: we have not had to wake up very early to witness the sunrise lately. This is one of the reasons we are able to appreciate the months surrounding the winter solstice. The heavier clouds on the approach turn the sky dark again.

We report: standing a ways away from the trees, we hear the birds and their hubbub of a conversation - sparrows we think. Our expert knows not enough about birds to have an opinion on the matter. No rain, but we see clouds floating low under the beams of the streetlights.

We report: we caught a movement in the sky, something unfurling and twisting itself in and out of shape. To the naked eye, it is just quick enough to see it happen in real time. We know how these clouds go, but it does not take away from watching this one at its freest.

We report: when the clouds form out of the ether this way, we get the feeling we are being shown the invisible mechanism that holds the sky together. The scales of this mackerel sky are rapidly joining together, and we can feel the air getting more humid. We unfold our raincoat.

We report as our expert is taking note of the altitude of the clouds: it is cold in the wintry sort of way that there is simply not enough sunlight in the day to meaningfully warm up the air anymore. There is a thin bit of radiation fog rising near the ground.

We report: for the first few hours of the night, the sky was only an expanse of light-eating, inky black. When the waxing gibbous moon appeared through gauzy clouds, we almost thought a silver sun was rising. We find blue shadows spilled out over our bed, dripping onto the floor.

We report in the loose bits of the afternoon, a moment that has neither hour nor minute to place it. Long have we given up our pursuits of forecast for this day - sometime after the second shower, and before the third wisp of rainbow. We let ourselves get carried through it all.

We report: in a matter of a handful of minutes, the wind took this contrail and did something odd with it. Our expert is frowning loudly by our side, undoubtedly reviewing their understanding of fluid dynamics in their mind. The steam over their cooling tea makes the same shapes.

We report about the corner of the sky where the sunset happened. Ultimately, the sunset was happening everywhere at that time, but the stratocumulus in this corner were carrying all of the blaze of the day. We cling to the warmth in the light because this is what we do best.

We report: it is yet another beast that rose high in the sky at the last possible moment of the day. We could only follow it, and in the cold, we saw it reach across the sky with its strange arms and legs. Our expert looked at it with binoculars, and affirms it was only a cloud.

We report as different skies meet into one: somewhere to our right, and to our left alike, something different is happening. We have to choose where to look, which is a common motive of heartbreak we suffer from. Worst of all, there comes a time when we must look away entirely.

We report: around noon, the air is dry and the sky is blue like it has never rained before. It feels this way, despite the full gutters, the puddles, the mud we track wherever we go. The sun is as bright as it gets in late November, and the wind is a whistle instead of a howl.

We report when the dawn chorus is at its loudest, even over the morning traffic. All edges of the world are still blurry, whether it is from our sleep-filled eyes, or the simple fact of the dim light. It is chilly, and we are not all the way present, but we feel a little warm.

We report: if we find colours in the deep night sky, we have to wonder how many of them are of our imagination, with our mind gone soft and mushy in the darkness. There is rhythm in the pitter patter of rain and dew dripping from foliage, keeping us grounded despite it all.

We report as we are looping our scarf for the second time, and our expert is looking for their gloves. It has been cold for a few days, and we know it still is just from looking through the window. This morning, we noticed the rain from last night had frozen over on windshields.

We report: at last, the chaos in the sky accurately represents the chaos of the weather we have been observing lately. We reckon we shall meet maximum entropy at any moment. This, at least, is something we know of November, a device of constant, unexpected changes.

We report on a day spent watching clouds rise, and then fall as soon as they stopped soaring, unable to hold their shapes. We feel the loss of each degree of temperature as the evening goes on, our numb face when we talk. Hailstones are gathered in strange places on the ground.

We report after sunset, looking out towards the east. The weak glow on the clouds is like someone has turned off the light, but left the door ajar as they went. The nightlight flickers; we get to see the last cloud melt into the night before it starts raining.

We report: we felt cold, so we walked fast, and now we feel too warm. This is the way it goes. In the clouds, corroding steel wool is unraveling, scratching up the whole sky across. Whatever bird we see is flying near the ground. We hear hail coming in the distance.

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.