Lake Yellowstone I curve my car along the lake wondering how I've mistaken the weather camped in purple thunderheads over the meadow, purple iris-strung. The ballerina can't be more than ten. I catch her spread-armed, chasing gulls, tossing a few leftover crumbs – She begs like a bird with hands. Foam congeals here on the beach never to dance among waves again. Today may be the best turn of her life surrounded by ruffling, squawking, squabbling gulls she can still believe in. I could tell her, this beach wasn't meant for breadcrumb girls, let alone women to soar and commit artistry – But my warning would fall uselessly scattering cold drops of purple iridescence onto the seagulls' waterproofing, feather-magical with rain. © 2007 by Beth Stevens