I open the battered hatch in time for the sunrise , distant fire flickering on an underbelly of cloud and in a thousand tiny mirrors - a frost-covered world. I trudge out to inspect the pipes. It is silent. I stand in my little trampled path between mounds of snow. In the summer, I am told, the steel rack that the pipes are on comes up to the chest. Now, the snow I stand on puts it below my knees.
Strange things in a shop can be beautiful. Morning sun backlights the saw, rendering the unseen visible, a golden brightness in a fine spray of liquid and pulverized metal, steam rising lazily from cold pipes, glinting in drops of coolant spray.

Farther inside, showers of sparks flicker in mirror-polished steel. Long pipes, fluted with precisely spiraled holes, are stacked upright like magnificent church organ, immense, dignified and full of unheard music.