The smells of molten glass foretells the beauty within. Red from molten glass casts a healthy glow to faces glistening with sweat. Bells clang, muscles tense. Working in perfect rhythm, A ballet with no music. Toss it in, roll it out.
Colors emerge to wait for choosing by an artisan's practiced eye.
Tortured elements touched by flame. Sweat dripping from brows of men flirting with fire. Beauty emerging from infernos into the quiet. Glass, born of sand and fire comes to life in frozen beauty, fragile strength. Orange pumpkin in harvest field.