Everything alive is behind the Redwood Curtain.
Somewhere west of Holy trinity, Oregon Pass and further still.
River stones into the Pacific, swept.
Parked vans on the 299 indicate a prolonged ****-stop.
An old man has been camping in the same spot for 10 days straight,
waiting on the radio.
You listen in about the 9/11 inside job and then tune the **** out.
There's a banjo being tuned in knee-high agua while the steelies
dive too deep on a meal.
Just beyond Blue Lake,
the skinned knees of Grandmothers and wizard bums
bleed into your morning coffee.
And if you haven't been stung in Fieldbrook
then what good are you?