Everything is askew. The swans are walking around on land. They are ungainly out of their element. They waddle, in fact.
Thoreau's cabin is uninhabited. He has never, in fact, inhabited this particular cabin. On the other hand, it suggests a homeyness to me. Perhaps it's the pitch of the roof.
Some of you have asked to see the finished blanket. Here it is, as best I can photograph it. The room is small and the bed is large.
All plain weave. A glancing ray of sunlight.
Now it's time for another warp. This time for the dobby. The beaming operation begins here. If you look hard you can see Uncle Potch on the wall.
It's ready for threading. When I get around to it.
Just finished reading: There Is Nothing for You Here by Fiona Hill. Remarkable history.