Vendredi 31 octobre, 11°, couvert 🌫️ C'est la fin de cette série Ciels, un morceau par jour guidé par l'observation du ciel et la météo. #ciels

Un petit exercice d'écriture quotidien qui a été inspiré par @clever-reports.bsky.social , les nuages de Éva Offredo, la musique pour piano de john Cage et Morton Feldman et mon stage de collège à la station météo ☀️🌧️

[inktober day 10] did you see that? no? oh then never mind

Gonna share this one that I took later last night too, I really love it a lot and I feel people who follow the reports might like it too!

Almost forgot to share these 👀 And I was surprised reading the report this morning because it's exactly what happened to me last night: went for a run, suddenly decided to turn around and there was the moon, this huge yellow orb in the pink sky, I thought I was hallucinating for a second.

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.

Citadel and storm

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.

Had one of those absolutely stunning sunset the other day through the plane window, the whole flight the sky was just truly incredibly beautiful 😍

We report during a slow burn of a sunset: first, a yellow glow on the horizon, and then the wisps of gold streaking through the sky. By the time we went out to see more, the artefacts of the sun were holding the whole thing together, delicate architecture built over an hour.

We report: tonight, after the moon has set, the sky is creosote, peaty depths shimmering with cold stars. Our expert slowly puts their memory to the test - the Pleiades here and Aldebaran there, Menkar in the Cetus constellation, and Capella, brighter than them all in Auriga.

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We report on a dark morning: we have trouble looking away from the clouds because of how windy it is there. Each minute of moving sky contains a day, with layers of greys flying over our head at different speeds, an Etch A Sketch resetting faster than we can register.

We report: it is a little less hot, for a shorter amount of time, but when the sun is out, it is out. We left our sunglasses in our other jacket - subconsciously, we must have thought autumn meant no sun. We are left helplessly squinting for our trouble. It is a bright day.

We report: we have been watching out for the "V" of migrating wild geese in the evening sky lately. Sure enough, we spot a gaggle crossing the valley tonight, high enough that we cannot hear them. Rubbing our cold hands together, we get a brief appreciation for their mission.

We report as the clouds are falling upwards: we are not sure whether it is raining. We think earlier rain is still dripping from trees, and that is why we keep getting cold drops on our face; even then, the sky looks dark enough for rain. Either way, the wind is pushing us home.

We report: today, the two halves of our planet are receiving the same amount of sunlight. It is quite a large amount of sunlight, if our corner of the world is any indication. Our expert tells us that this is not how the equinox works. The cirrus knit themselves into blankets.

We report in the humble beginnings of light: the temperature is not that much lower than it was a few weeks ago, but we feel those degrees of difference under our skin, in the flesh near our bones. The sun is a sleepy eye between the eyelashes of clouds, slowly blinking.

We report: it is raining movie rain tonight, like a giant watering can is following us around. We breathe with care, lest we inhale water in the process. We have tucked our hands into our sleeves, to no avail - soon, we get the distinct feeling of being completely drenched.

We report in the midst of the frantic agitation of early morning: it was already raining, we were already late, we had already forgotten our keys. We did not need the sun to make a bold statement to have us more frazzled. The rain stops for a brief moment, also distracted.

We report: it takes September for calf-deep puddles to form in the middle of the paths we walk. We get around them where we can, and the path gets a little wider every year. In some places, well-meaning strangers have made treacherous bridges out of rotting logs and mossy rocks.

We report walking towards the east at sunset: while the days are getting cooler, we are still living that moment of transition when crickets can be heard in the grass. It baffles us every year - our collar zipped up to our chin, and the soft chirps, vestigial crumbs of summer.

and another

We report: the way the clouds are rushing through the sky, the stars are constantly blinking in and out of the darkness. At this late hour, with the wind in our eyes, they are all meteors to us. Our expert finds their torchlight, but it is weak and yellow, almost out of battery.

We report from the doorstep, while towel-drying our hair: we left the door open when we came in. The rain is falling straight down, crackling static scrambling the horizon. Our eyes keep shifting back to the spot of sunshine in the distance, wondering if it is raining over there.

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: 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: 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.

Of course I do! Better yet, today (it’s not tomorrow until I go to sleep) is day 2000 of reports!

does @clever-reports.bsky.social know that it’s #CloudAppreciationDay

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.

Remember these old paintings I used to do, would you like to buy a pdf that collects all 70+ of them together? If you make me feel really good maybe we can bump it up to 80, 90? Probably not

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.

A microscopic Tardigrade (water bear), walking across a glass slide. Extremely resilient, they can survive decades without food or water and can survive in direct exposure to space.

ベランダから皆既月食を見ていた。 From my balcony, I gazed at the total lunar eclipse.🌑 #lunareclipse Taken in Tokyo, Japan

missed the lunar eclipse because of clouds, but I did see some cute pileus and velum clouds, so it was still a winning situation

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.

The four-meter long drawing I worked on this summer, finally finished.

I’ve got a couple of videos, but they’re all a bit dodgy. Not bad for a sense of scale though

The four-meter long drawing I worked on this summer, finally finished.

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: 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.

Left the house with the dog a few years ago and witnessed this monster - bonus moon shot

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.