This sock has actually been in progress for a while - I cast on back in February, to cheer me up while I sat around in lots of doctor's offices all month - but it wasn't until yesterday that I finally got around to photographing it. I took it as a ferry project while I took a day trip to Bainbridge Island to visit a friend. After a lunch on the patio of a nearby restaurant, we wandered around Churchmouse for an hour or so, petting yarn and quietly exclaiming things about fiber blends and color obsessions.
Every time I go to the island, I'm reminded of how much I love the place. The ferry ride over was cool and damp: the clouds hanging low over the dark green water, mist dusting the tips of the trees along the shoreline. As the island came into view, I felt a soft calm descend over me. Far away from the frantic pace of the city, it's as if I see color for the first time: the yellow of a schoolchild's windbreaker; the dirty grey of a gull's wing; the soft violet outline of land as it meets the sky.
On the island, time expands. The excited footfalls of children gently thump across the carpeted ferry terminal floor. The open windows smell of salt and rain. Hands linger on a twist of brown wool, dry and slightly warm, as if it were still connected to the animal that bore it.
It is, in a word, magic.