Turning, turning, turning. It just keeps turning in my hands, the cool, slick clay. Coming to life beneath my fingers. Turning, turning, my foot keeps the rhythm. The clay takes shape like an elegant lady, dancing on ice. Everywhere is turning. Wet, red hands at work. A mournful whimper escapes my tight throat, a momentary lapse of focus leaves a soggy lump in the lady’s place. I look to the others for help, or solace. But they just keep turning, turning, turning.