A Horse Named Sorrow

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255 56 On the BART train there were a dozen peo­ ple bur­ ied in the news­ paper, so thick with sto­ ries you’d see peo­ ple fold it up and put it down with a sigh. There were ba­ bies, who ­ didn’t know what they were in for, kids start­ ing to no­ tice that ­ nothing’s as it seems, and a whole bunch of ­ adults ­ wrapped up like pack­ ages in their busi­ ness suits and­ dresses. I ­ looked out the win­ dow at the flash­ ing ­ lights that once again re­ minded me of ­ deep-sea fish with or­ ganic light­ bulbs on their heads, and I ­ thought about sal­ mon, and dogs, and lit­ tle pul­ lets catch­ ing rain . . .­ whelps, ­ calves, ­ smolts, and ­ shoats. Two seats to my left, a boy was draw­ ing a horse on his sketch­ pad. And then up we gal­ loped into the ris­ ing sun, the hulk­ ing port ­ cranes stand­ ing ­ around like graz­ ing dino­ saurs. ­ What’s a baby crane? A chick? ...