The flag on the top of the high school is in rags, the edge tattered and the main body of it torn in half along the stripe just beneath the blue field of stars. It flaps haphazardly in the wind, strips of it flying all different directions.
Just above my head, plastic bags flutter in the trees to the same wind, their never-to-decompose corpses buzzing like cicadas. I look back and forth between them and the top of the high school, watching.
Post a Comment