Some friends recently visited a volcano in the pacific near the equator. This port to the underworld groaned and gurgled in a voice perhaps of the Burning Bush. It vomited lava, turning and stretching into orange fingers, groping for purchase upon the face of the world.
They looked into its maw, transfixed. More arms with hands with fingers punched the air, becoming half-hearted with gravity slowing. One rose over them and they were seized in fear: where would it land? Where should we run? It fell about twenty feet behind where they had just walked.
So beautiful was it that they risked staying into the night to see to see to see.