QotD: What reason do you have to believe the earth is flat?

Yesterday,
hills sprang in echoing surprise,
monster mountain hanging not so much behind
as over them, a blue and purple shawl.
Dots upon a narrow thread appeared,
winding far, then close and closer, growing larger
until with rush of wind and horns Dopplering
blue and red, they passed, taking joys and sorrows
along a ribbon leading over and beyond.

Round as an orange, bumply burnished, tangy sweet,
my world, with jangled notes of birds and hinges,
chimes and bees, running feet on sod:
waves of sound rising, falling, following
fragrant lilac blooms, baking bread,
sweat, and oatmeal soap
in ethereal dance.

It seems but yesterday;
perhaps it was a week ago, or years,
when a world of bumpy round
burst shatter sharp.

Absence silenced
that hard groaning,
plates beneath the sea
slipping, grinding.
Silent now,
flat.