Climbing that ladder let me see through the steam, by the orange light of the sunset dumping through the sooted skylights like the shop lights on the dead crane. It had been a while since it lifted a locomotive off its chasis, but the smell of grease was still strong enough to lubricate my sinuses
The Era of Steam grew forgetful in its old age and left one of its playthings behind. Mitchell Yards ran from 1906
I couldn’t have guessed, standing in stall one of two, that Singer Sewing Machines had built this semi-rural roundhouse on the edge of South Bend.
Wooden platforms traced the feather beds of steel horses, the worn boards faintly glowing orange from the polluted light filtering through ancient cube glass. “Good night, Minneapolis, sleep sweet.”