A Ring of Fired Clay

I walked past the open workshop doors to the gravel yard where an outdoor brick kiln had just finished cooling. Beside the iron latch sat a discarded kiln prop—a dense, pale cylinder of fired refractory clay, radiating leftover morning bake. I held dead still on the sunlit gravel. Dust motes drifted. A sudden draft whistled past the flue. In one decisive, snapping surge, I bounded forward and wrapped both long palms around the heavy cylinder! Trapped kiln warmth surged instantly through the rough mineral grain, anchoring my grip with a deep, silent hum! -basher