I like the cranes, how they lean against the sky. Arms on the railing around the harbor, staring at the sunsetting skyscape and the rocking giants of container ships. I feel like them, hard, functional, silver without fear, bones exposed for gulls to perch on, infrastructure laid bare. Up above the seagulls are calling and circling. Up above the sky has given way to fire.
The cranes are iron dogs, vigilant against the clouds. The cranes are visible, heads up, antenna ears pricked for the siren call of giants coming in over the Asian horizon. The cranes are waiting for containers to play with.
James says the cranes look like aliens, ready to uproot and stomp over Oakland, lasers ready to set the apartment buildings and tenements and warehouses on fire.
I like to think the cranes will pull up from their moorings and come looking like dumb loyal dogs to get scratched behind the ears and be given rusted pilings for biscuits before they lay back down in the mess they've made, tails of electrical feeds wagging this way and that.
Think of the puppies.