working cloth never rests

 It's raw cold and raining. The lawn is alive with little brown birds so tiny you can't see them until they move. Forget taking pictures. All of them bossed by a gang of cardinals. I really need to hire a landscaper. It's gotten away from us.

From the River Basket, a stack of mostly finished and a few never will be. 

And this, reborn from a false, unsatisfying start. The last remnant of Jim's jeans. Real tools hung from that loop once. This is front and back. So far.

A woman can't have too many pockets. This will be a pocket with two or three pockets.

Somewhere in my closet, there's a pair of jeans that will be sacrificed for the strap of just the right length. There will be beads.

Now that I have the heavy hauler with room for overnight stuff, books, and my Chromebook, I want something just for my wallet, keys, and cell. 

And a knife. Glasses. Some paper. A pen. A damask napkin. Lip stuff. Gum. Aspirin. A lighter. Some lotion. My Tarot. Loose change. PENNIES!

What do you always carry? 

Now I have to find the right fabric to line it with. Slowly.

And writing. For hours. 

Lost in the delicious now. Clean, warm, dry, fed and grateful.