#praecipitatio

We report: on the approach of the clouds, we feel weighed down, finding it hard to move. There is a sense that we are seeing something we should not. It gets very windy, warm and dry. Once we are under the storm, and it starts to rain, we cannot make out its contours anymore.

Great spotting!

We report: the rain is long gone, and the storm is miles and miles away now, which is the only way we can see it in its full expanse. There are still echoes of thunder over the hills; the storm cell is still developing outwards, and we can clearly see the wall of rain beneath.

We report: oddly, we do not hear the sound of rain from where we are. Looking at the advancing curtain of water, we think we should not be able to hear anything else. It seems this is not for us. On the radar, we find ourselves just outside of the radius of precipitation.

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 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 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: there is rain behind us, but we suspect there might be hail ahead of us. In the meantime, although there is no storm, and thus no eye of the storm, it is eerily quiet. We can see the wind picking up the precipitation on the underbelly of the clouds, carrying it away.