None of anybody’s egos matter here. Driving Creek as it always is, sits quietly around us, bird calls and cicadas. I walk through the arch, along the parked trains, to go tend to the fire under the clay we made earlier from over at 210. It’s going good. Maybe even a little too good. I spread out the wood inside the box, making it even. The smell of sap & smoke, dirt & clay. Voices upstairs in the studio, closing doors, taking stock of the day’s making. A quiet wind eases itself around the bend.
