Tattered threads where its stripes once connected, blown out straight in the wind, pulling strong on the ropes laced through the eyelets that keep it tied to its poll. The flag flew strong, still proud, out tight, snapping with the wind.
Forget any political statements, "USA, USA," and all that—stuff.
Worn out and broken down—scars show where you've been. Be proud of what's been overcome. Pull tight at those cords, but stay connected. Stare down the clouds. Find the blue sky beyond.
I like what this little fraction of a flag represents without any Old Glory symbolism. It's been out in the weather, its stripes literally blown off, but there it was, the square that remained flying better than ever.
I didn't even see the flag at first. A sewer, a manhole, right on the edge of Casco Bay(photo) is what I had walked down to photograph. I had been waiting for a day with post-work sunshine to go take a picture. I had noticed the scene driving by a few days before. I walked down into the mud, sea grass and snow and moved around for a few different angles of the rusty circle of steel. I saw the flag, on a tall pole at the end of a dock, but thought nothing of it. It looked checkered, or like a small nautical flag.
I took a few more shots, the ice and snow running out into the low-tide mudflats (photo) and walked down towards the dock. Then I noticed something was missing from the flag. Definitely my photo of the day.
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