My California

By Aislinn Welch (High School Junior)

Barefoot running along the narrow winding Bridgeport trail

Around every corner a new surprise

A new reason to pause, observe, take it all in

Yet never long enough for my family to catch up.

Waves of wildflowers coating both sides.

Sunset orange fairy wings holding onto the stem of

the california poppy

The name of my childhood best friend.

“The lupine lady” existing outside the book I was

read almost every night

Drifting into the beautiful rolling hills, purple being

the only thing seen.

The contrast between the lush summer green grass

and the vibrant orange of the Indian paintbrush

Always being my favorite.

A place not only locked away in memory

but a place still creating memories.

All loved enough to learn their name

All loved enough to memorize them.

Petrichor

By Molly Fisk

The way a rare night of rain in a bad drought year under wildfire smoke
will clean your mind of all its low-lying, unacknowledged panic
and you'll walk out at four in the morning, face turned to the glory
of it, tears you haven't cried in a decade slipping down your cheek,
your neck, into the collar of the nightgown you bought to make
the pandemic more tolerable: cotton, with pockets, and no
percent polyester so in summer heat it doesn't prickle.
Thunder cracks to the west and a theoretical fear of lightning
but you can't see any and the rain's so cool, the smell so fine,
you let yourself forget new starts for a moment, let tomorrow
take care of itself, pray the rain takes some of the flames down thirty
miles over, flattens the embers, glues the swirling ash to whatever
surface it falls on, shatters the bright heart of that hundred-thousand
acre burn, sparing the breathing beings that are left and the three-
generation log cabins, Old Town canoes up-ended on docks,
the brown trout dozing deep in the crevices dreaming of mayflies,
the look-out towers from which a sharp-eyed kid might spot
new wisps at dawn if the clouds lift out of these tricky canyons.

My California

By Kirsten Casey

I come from rows plowed in dense soil

like lines in a poem, repeated and ordered

concealing what is germinating underneath. I am

from coastal June fog, summer clouds that droop to say hello

and gingko tree lined streets, from ice plant and juniper,

easily grown, long-lived, nondescript and green.

I am from pesticides sprayed on lettuce crops and the plume

from the Nestle chocolate factory, from so much

poison and magic in the morning air.

I am from the bougainvillea climbing trellises

with their pink blooming arms, and pots of red

geraniums on porches, in every mild season, stretching

their necks for a few more minutes of sun.

I am from endless fields of artichokes and iceberg lettuce,

from eucalyptus groves dropping woody seed pods

that look like oxidized ancient coins. I am from orphans

and immigrants, from ranch dust, almonds orchards,

chicken wire and poisoned blood in the central valley,

and from babies who felt the 1918 San Francisco Earthquake.

I am an aftershock.

I am also from cedar pollen that yellows the yard

in a such a thick way Van Gogh’s palette would be jealous,

and from stacked Yuba River rocks, rooted in the rapids

I am from all of the pink volunteer dogwood trees, dear trampled

pine needle trails, and the neighborhood crows

who are still trying to learn my name. I am from

late spring snow that breaks birch branches, but fills

reservoirs, from the hidden hives of honeybees and

the lavender they dance in. I am from the Virginia

Creeper vines winding through the cracked headstones

of pioneer cemeteries. I am from the clearest

midnight sky, at the end of my street, where

the stars forget there are cities always trying to

outshine them, and even though the shimmering

we see is already 10,000 years old, it seems

they still want to perform right now, arranging themselves in

a luminous tableau vivant. I know I am

not alone under these California constellations,

but tonight, it seems they are just for me.

Yuba River at Downieville

By Judy Clarence

A river is a constant roar,

A rush, a smooth-always sound

unlike the ocean with its comings,

goings, long pause between each surge.

River edges banked with rocks, unlike

the sea’s smooth sand. Down

the mountains waves, bumplike,

small rushing hills of water strive

toward the ocean, remote as deserts.

Down they tumble, fresh

from their lives as recent snow.

How long to reach the sea. Days?

Months? They’re moving faster now,

fast enough to meet the future

coming back upstream.

Where the Downieville River

meets the North Fork, the two crash

at first, like ill-mannered cars.

Then in the blustery turbulence

they merge, the calm resolution

of a fierce argument. Compatible

as the stones they swim above,

they flow together, eternal partners

blended into one on the journey

to the well-married sea.