dreamed 2008/9/24 by Wayan.
Work dawn to dusk. Add other poets to
I'm driving out a three-mile cape
I've never seen before,
from San Francisco east into the Bay.
Its barren north shore
was quarried long ago. Shale cliffs, red grit--
topsoil all industriously stripped
till the bust, postwar.
Factories whistle windowless now, due
I snake up a hillroad out of the red
craning our necks in amaze; these
crazy trees rise a hundred yards or more!
Give even redwoods a run for the sun.
Endemic: only here.
This is wrong. My native readers know.
So the northern blight's not microdrought!
But loggers cut them all, all
Rains and patient mist'll surely lure
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