Bonneville

By Jenny Lind M. Brown

Over a dead sea a white gull is flying,

Tracing superbly his course through the sky,

But why is he crying, mournfully crying?

Does his call echo from ages gone by?

Freed from high mountains a late sun is rising,

Casting long shadows upon the earth’s floor

Where oakbrush grows, hiding but never disguising

Alluvial slopes of the lake’s ancient shore.

Once when a cover of sand-grass was growing,

Gossamer webs caught the morning’s wet dew

To mirror the hoof of an antlered stag going

To drink of its water … cool, fresh, and blue.

Nearby in rushes black marsh-birds were nesting,

Rasping the air with their hoarse “conkaree!”—

Yet warily watching a buoyant gull breasting

Slow lapping waves of the deep inland sea.

Wild was its water when winds raged in fury,

Carving the shoreline by waves capped with foam!

And wild was the white gull mantled with beauty,

Boldly declaring that vast sea his home!

Over a dead sea a white gull is flying—

Blending his gray with the sagebrush below.

Why is he crying, mournfully crying—

Repeating an echo from time long ago?