A back-road of rut and root
Dug out of the grove down
From the town: storefronts strung
Like bulbs above the river's dark.
White flies like cinders at the surface
And the fish, whose world is one horizon,
Break and gasp, the vertical slope
Of the bank extending through trees
To the blank field of the sky,
Which knows no perspective
But the lazy line of jet trails fading East.
It's a rocky shore, great weedy scrub
In tight bunches where the swimmers piss
Back from the fires: I've come down
The coast, along the sea's shelf of sand,
To hear the cricket rub itself awake
And see the sun fold the sky on its axis:
The horizon broken by its right descent.
Myers Flat is a tiny town along the Redwood highway's "Avenue of the Giants." Were you to visit, you would find that, in reality, it exists in three full dimensions.