Here’s our town in case you have forgotten
that in the winter there are two
blue hours when even the trees
look to be shivering without their sweaters.
There are no clouds, not right now,
but I’m sure in the morning
our fog will roll in.
I hope it will rain, but I know you
fear the branches will breach the roof
of our Yukon XL(2004).
The one that took us on all those trips
Dead silent, arid hills till NorCal(In 2019)
It did rain last week,
Or the one before
The redwoods stand tall and strong
despite being snapped in half
from the lightning before.
It cracked their bark,
made a vein down the highway,
from 17 to 9.
I’m out on the porch
to watch the turkeys pass, and to see
the pale blue light fading.
The old school house fallen to sea.
Here’s one last lesson before it’s never been ours.
I mean ours
as in mine and that old owl’s
who sits up in the tree,
or mine and the sharks;
the clenched jaws of the sea.
In case your abhorrence is bubbling
that I didn’t leave the house today,
you should know I don’t feel well.
Sunsick and afraid
like the dog down the street;
he’s barking as I type;
Sunsick from missing
it’s just behind the fog till morning,
but he still sees headlights pass.
Finn Maxwell is a sophomore in high school. He writes short stories and poems, often taking inspiration from his mountainous hometown in California. Finn’s work is present in The Malu Zine. When he isn’t writing, he enjoys exploring his local state park, painting, and listening to music.