If you happen upon an old country road, winding and twisting and bending, you might come across a tiny flag as I did. Someone wedged it in this dilapidated old post, and there it blew in the wind. I had to stop and see it.
|O beautiful, for patriot dream.|
The sky was grey and hazy. The Earth had exploded with green abundance. The fields were quiet except for the insects and birds, although somewhere there were sheep in the distance because I could hear them. No one drove by. There were no cars, no bikes, no horses. For all I knew, I might have been the only person alive.
But, then, that couldn’t be true because of the flag. Somewhere . . . there was another person, someone just like me, and he placed this flag here on purpose. He knew it would be seen. He also knew that only a certain kind of person would stop to see it. I am that kind of person.
If ever I ought to have begun singing, “O beautiful, for spacious skies . . .” it was then. But you see, there was no need to do so because America was all around me. It was all my eyes could feast upon, all my ears could hear. I did not have to invoke her; she was everywhere. There was no need for fireworks or festivals or shopping malls. There was no need for keeping up with the Joneses in the America that I was in. There was peace and plenty as far as the eye could see, and it was heaven on Earth.
A tiny flag with a plastic pole stuffed into an old post sings quietly on an old country road somewhere in Maine, just one of those United States of America. I doubt anyone will stop to look at it. It was a gift left there just for me, and now I give it to you. Hold it closely, and then crown thy good with brotherhood from sea to shining sea.