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.
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| 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.
