The idea was to pack them in so tight they wouldn’t fall, and be trampled underfoot as the indifferent train wheels sped across the cold. It was early on a day in November, and my first sight was a hasty glance as I passed a few cattle cars on my way to the caboose. They had been driven from the relative freedom of the stockyards the previous night, and were bawling and rustling around in their new prison, looking for space that was not there. Puffs of steamy breath came from between the wooden slats, and disappeared into the falling snow. I had a chance to survey the cars near my caboose a few hundred miles later.
the little xs
in place of their eyes