The Telephone Booth

There is a bright red telephone box

On the California coast

It reflects the odd prism of light

As sailboats clip and motorboats bob

In the nearby harbor.

The stony shoreline

Awash with the sound of crashing waves

And the crying of gulls

Seems to hush

And listen for the sound of rain.

The pier is covered in shadow

As four siblings race along the sand

As their mother pleads for a family photo

Fog hovers over the water

Lightly misting the fishermen's windows.

There are four children

Crowded into the phonebooth

Three gangly tan brothers, one fair sister

Ignoring the clouds, the crowds, and the jostle of elbows

Smiling for the camera.