Threads of daylight weave through the tiny window and I can see the dust performing its flitting fitful dance. He comes in view, and his hulking shape chases all the dusty bits from their stage. He sits upon the stool and the sunlight from the window forms a halo that rests upon his head. He closes his eyes and wraps his hands around the clay and then he breaths, long and slow and deep like he is drawing breath from all the Gods above. Outside, the church bells ring as his potter's wheel begin to spin.