All around the world, forgotten volcanoes lie in wait. Some smoke hourly over the top, unburdened. Others watch the waves, sails more vibrant than their guts flapping in the wind. Look out for them, these envious others. When their patience peaks they erupt without warning. What they want is reunion

with the ocean. They yearn to answer the distant call of the horizon. Rubies are offered from the glowing crust of their skin. But the horizon is touched only by sunstones from distant stars; they glitter more brightly in her timeless gaze. On these volcanoes go then, hardening themselves with themselves layer by layer, waiting

for the day when at last they have risen like flags, like mountains who hardly loved the earth— for the hour when they have lifted themselves into space to be cradled by a darkness familiar, cherished like a red hot newborn star, held within the arms of a greater order.