The green bag slipped open. A pair of small hands reached in to find a
smaller brown bag, which also slid open to liberate the final prize: a
triangle of golden yellow cloth and a handful of various colors of thread.
The hands were light, resting for only a soft moment on any one item. The cloth was pressed purposefully to the waiting lap, and the threads placed on top. Blues over here, greens over there, everything in its proper place. A horse sighed somewhere close by, glad that the day was done.
The hands dipped into the resourceful bag again, and this time pulled out a tiny piece of parchment. The parchment was covered in tiny black marks and stains, diffusing throughout the fibers like water. Rough holes lined the edges of the parchment, as if someone had very carefully poked them there with the tip of a dagger. This, too, was placed purposefully on top of the lap and waited for importance to be bestowed upon it.
The pile of blues was picked up, and quickly sorted into not one pile of many blues, but many piles of one shade of blue. The long fingers were fast in their work, as if they had done it many times before, and before long all the colors were sorted and piled in this manner. Each pile was twisted around itself, to bind them together, and then poked through the holes lining the parchment. A simple coil of the fingers and a single, loose knot held the threads to their correct space.
A last search into the contents of the brown bag yielded a single long needle, shining in the glow of the setting sun. The crickets were emboldened by the cool evening air, and began to chirp in their hidden homes among the rocks. The fingers strolled over the parchment, looking for just the right thread color. The greens looked like a good place for a beginning, but which one? and where would it go?
First this color, then that color. Each one was gently lifted from its resting place, studied, then placed back down. The hands frowned, laying flat on the lap in exasperation. The fingers tapped impatiently, waiting for the uncertain hands to make a decision.
Finally, they moved towards a green-silver section. The selection was a thin subdivision, not much more than a half-dozen treads deep. The soft mummers of human conversation floated on the air as the knot was undone. A single thread slithered from the parchment as the rest were firmly tied down again. The end of the thread found its way to the needle, and was coaxed into the tiny opening.
The cloth was picked up, finally ready for its grand destiny. The fingers ran the length of the cloth, ready for action. One finger found a suitable spot, and quickly marked it as the opposite hand ran with the needle to the other side of the cloth.
Deftly, the needle was pushed through and the first stitch complete.
The hands were light, resting for only a soft moment on any one item. The cloth was pressed purposefully to the waiting lap, and the threads placed on top. Blues over here, greens over there, everything in its proper place. A horse sighed somewhere close by, glad that the day was done.
The hands dipped into the resourceful bag again, and this time pulled out a tiny piece of parchment. The parchment was covered in tiny black marks and stains, diffusing throughout the fibers like water. Rough holes lined the edges of the parchment, as if someone had very carefully poked them there with the tip of a dagger. This, too, was placed purposefully on top of the lap and waited for importance to be bestowed upon it.
The pile of blues was picked up, and quickly sorted into not one pile of many blues, but many piles of one shade of blue. The long fingers were fast in their work, as if they had done it many times before, and before long all the colors were sorted and piled in this manner. Each pile was twisted around itself, to bind them together, and then poked through the holes lining the parchment. A simple coil of the fingers and a single, loose knot held the threads to their correct space.
A last search into the contents of the brown bag yielded a single long needle, shining in the glow of the setting sun. The crickets were emboldened by the cool evening air, and began to chirp in their hidden homes among the rocks. The fingers strolled over the parchment, looking for just the right thread color. The greens looked like a good place for a beginning, but which one? and where would it go?
First this color, then that color. Each one was gently lifted from its resting place, studied, then placed back down. The hands frowned, laying flat on the lap in exasperation. The fingers tapped impatiently, waiting for the uncertain hands to make a decision.
Finally, they moved towards a green-silver section. The selection was a thin subdivision, not much more than a half-dozen treads deep. The soft mummers of human conversation floated on the air as the knot was undone. A single thread slithered from the parchment as the rest were firmly tied down again. The end of the thread found its way to the needle, and was coaxed into the tiny opening.
The cloth was picked up, finally ready for its grand destiny. The fingers ran the length of the cloth, ready for action. One finger found a suitable spot, and quickly marked it as the opposite hand ran with the needle to the other side of the cloth.
Deftly, the needle was pushed through and the first stitch complete.