That odor. Putrid as a rotting potato. The sour smell of sulfur suspended in air, or not quite. Worse, maybe. Those of us who live on the receding shores of an inland sea know what it is.

Lake stink.

Never forget that I am here, the Great Salt Lake reminds us. I own this place, where I breed mosquitoes and relentless swarms of brine flies. Where my warmth feeds fast-moving clouds, prolonging snowstorms that blanket my ancient shorelines. Where I expand and recede with every climatic whim.

Where grebes and phalaropes stage their migrations. Where algae tint my salty water red. Where flaming sunsets reflect as off glass back at the sky.

We take a deep, smelly breath.

We haven’t forgotten that you are here.