I find more comfort than usual as I watch the American Flag slowly move with the light breeze in the solemn morning of a winter’s desert.
The last few town’s I venture through before heading home increase with character and the independent spirit.
Ironically, the last two songs on Yankee Hotel Foxtrot are “Poor places” and “Reservations”. As they play, an old man emerges from a storefront, struggling to button his trousers before they fall down around his ankles.
He can barely walk, and so I watch him carefully, as I’ll need to help him if he can’t get his pants secure
He holds them tightly as he looks both ways before crossing the empty street on this early Sunday morning.
Proud, independent, American.
Only the mannequins and I see this.
This album has emptiness where music should be, notes play when the mainstream wants silence. A lone sign warns of visitors from another world.
There it is, the truth that lies in the ashes of American Flags.
Color comes back into the world as the sun breaks free of the clouds, and warms the tree that waits in patience for the rays of light.