If you have seen the fine metallic filings flying onto the fellow who crimps copper into flashing and fashions pivot hinges from brass, you have seen it. This is not the late Bronze Age. There are no palace economies, only the economy of one man milling metal to earn the flimsy dollars that keep him fed. When you knock on his door he quiets the grindstone raises his polycarbonate visor and greets you swathed in a swarm of gold— not war gold or altar gold but the metalsmith’s hard-won residue: swarf.