The firing begins in daylight and ends, if all goes well, in darkness. The kiln is loaded by noon; by four the burner is lit and the studio has acquired its slow orange heartbeat. A gas firing is a conversation conducted through a peep hole. The potter reads the color of the chamber the way a sailor reads weather — a dull red, an apricot glow, and finally the white heat at which the cones begin to bend. The reduction is pulled at the top of the climb, the damper eased until the flame licks out of the spy and the atmosphere inside turns thick and sweet. From that moment, the glaze is no longer in the potter's hands; it is in the fire's. By nine the burner is off and the silence is enormous. The kiln ticks as it cools. Everything that matters will be decided in the morning, at the door, in the light.