Old Glory


They waved in soft spoken glory against the overcast dawn. Two tidy rows of red, write, and blue trailing to the end of the walkway. They were easy to pass by without paying much notice, simply blending into the backdrop, raised atop nondescript white poles. Still they continued to fly, not at all bothered by rain and sleet, knowing that the time would come that they would not only be noticed, but needed. They were a beacon of hope. They were a sobering reminder that freedom often came at a cost, for freedom was never free.





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