The Smithy

The hammer drops heavily on the glowing steel, illuminating the top of the anvil in the dim, dark of the shop. The striking pattern sings into the village, a muted ting, ting, whack. With every change of the rod, a different voice is heard. Some metals of poor temper sing quite flat and a few brilliant rods shine more beautiful than any ever struck. As he works one, many rest in the fire, waiting for their refrain to come. Every rod is like the pen scratching the paper, putting a plot on a line, writing the song as they go. In the dying light of the ending day, each stroke continues to ring out, without change in tempo or speed.