Poetry may not do it justice.

Their brown feathered heads bob,
their feet dig, clumps, grab and rob,
clods and sods, while tearing Earth.

Their heads twist downward and eyes
peer at what was unearthed and prized.

They were scratching out a living, peck
eking out an existence, even though peck,
they were paid in chicken feed, peck, peck.

They were the chickens of the loafing shed!

He worked with glass then later in front of the glory hole,
several hours a day and many, many years of hours total
over two and a half decades, annealing like his glass.

He pulled the sweetness from each piece with furnace fire, air and motion
staying level-headed while the raw molten ocean gathered on the honey dipper
of super-heated soft and borosilica masses were built from inside out, from
the crucible of the masters imagination.

Each year, all glass masterpieces all,
but three it averaged
would not make it to the market, fall or
fractured, shattered,
not a thing to be discouraged.

Cooling, heating a tricky thing,
Light blue pieces in the pan disassembled by natural forces,

so unlike their dreams, which have become tangible,
at 1100 degrees C, just don't touch the beauty, quite yet

this is the glass blowing reality at loafing shed