9/11

     In an old notebook of mine, I found a scribble, a quick note of a flag I'd passed on the highway once. It grabbed me enough to mark it on paper, but I couldn't remember what grabbed me about it until today. It's a tall flagpole, set on the top of a dark cliff that towers on the side of highway. The rocky top leaves it strangely alone, without trees or shrubbery. I wrote when there was snow settled on the ground, making a stark greyscale against the softly faded reds and blues. The cars rushed passed it, and in the fleeting moment of my passing, I caught it without much wind, simply hanging, lonely at the top of the cliff. It seemed to stand with pride in its subtle gentle flutter. Today again I passed it. It stands without concept of time. The wind pulled it out, and let its stripes and stars wave and flutter, in glory for all it represented, alone at the top of its hill.