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.