Our flag. Seen on a walk out on the back roads. Hung up in tree branches. Ripped and torn by the storms. My mind whirls at the meanings, at the sadness that our country has endured. But I note that part of the fabric remains intact, though with a few twists and folds. I smooth out the parts I can reach.
I walk on. Thinking. Noting that there is still beauty out here on the back roads. With creeks that rise from drought to full again.
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