It was a final farewell.
Decades dismantled.
Traces left to fade
in unforgiving sun.
Driving North on 99,
the broken white lines blur
to vanish in the rear-view mirror
like yesterdays --
Beyond the valley’s haze,
ponderosa food banks fatten bark-beetles.
Louis’ diner plays pandemic taps,
and the pescatori at Number 8
hand over the quay.
It was never without a fault,
but it was golden,
though the song was wrong.
You can always leave.
Even if it gets under your skin.
John Walter Taylor
© All rights reserved
27 September 2026
