Little silver needles, a French pattern, fingering merino/possum yarn. Two millimeter needles are bird bones. Eighty one stitches make me blind. I braille knit to keep the stitches from sliding into oblivion. This new language of wool. A faerie dress.
Who sits with a possum, combing fur to spin, playing dead. I see it in my mind; it would suit everyone. The possum would feel saved, the wool gatherer relieved.
I drop a stitch. It is like hiking with Rose on the coyote ridge. She careens through the brush on a scent. I lose her. I am rigid still. If I move she will lose the place of me. I stop breathing and will the stitch to stop it’s fall into nothingness. I set my needles down like they are mine fields. I hold my ground and whistle again and again for my little dog. Come back to me. I lever the smallest crochet hook under the perception of a stitch. I have it. Rose clambers toward me.
I walk and knit for the adrenaline.