It is sloth slow, one off, one on, knit forth, purl back, rhythmic travel that goes nearly nowhere but even four ply eventually gets somewhere, here a pause some one-third through, the wool designed to make faux argyle socks I have reconsigned to a scarf, my venture into socks being more down at heel, than well-shod.  But the partly made knitted thing, the yarn’s two states of pattern, the needles angles, the afternoon light, all contrive to please.