The sun was setting outside, highlighting the textures and lines that made the form of the power plant take a fourth dimension–time.
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A back-lit tree with the silhouette of a roof spire in the background.
Standing atop the dust collector, the factory breaks down into diverging patterns, processes.
From Main Street, looking straight up at the A Mill, only the silence makes one think that nobody’s still inside, grinding grain into Pillsbury’s Best.
They left and took their God with ’em. Doesn’t feel too empty without ‘im, though.
Originally, this part of the dock was reserved for the weather station.
The main shaft’s cable spooled with bird castings belies the fact that lives used to dangle from its steel-wound strength. Arrows on the circles would indicate the mine level the cars were currently at.
The Engine House’s boiler, which would have been fired all day all day, virtually from the day the shop opened until the day it closed.
A facade that tells the story of demolition and neglect. The sign on the garage door indicates that if one finds themselves there, that they enter the buildings at their own risk. If only property owners in the US took this philosophy!
Steel mine hoists, near the place they worked, wait for scrap prices to justify their final removal from Osceola, Michigan.