An iron-rich glaze left to find its own edges — a pale pool opens at the centre like clearing water, ringed and freckled with rust where the metal rose to meet the flame. No two firings settle the same way; this one kept the mark of where the heat pooled longest.
I painted the iron on and then I let go of it. In the fire it does what water does — it finds the low place, opens, goes still. What you see in the pale centre is where the glaze pooled and quieted; the rust around it is the metal rising, blooming, remembering it was once ore in the ground. I did not draw this. I only chose the moment to stop looking, and the kiln finished the sentence for me.
