How the Flag Learned to Taste Like Mud
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How the Flag Learned to Taste Like Mud
The flag lay in the dirt like spilled grain,
and everyone swore they were feeding it.
The roosters charged first, chests puffed,
spurs bloody from fighting their own reflections,
screaming dawn into the wrong century.
Pigs stood on hind legs at the fence,
pink mouths full of the word freedom,
chewing it until it meant mine.
A pair of watchdogs snapped at shadows,
foam flying, collars stamped with slogans,
while the gate hung open behind them.
Horses ran in tight, obedient circles,
eyes blinders-wide, trampling whatever fell—
they called it discipline.
Above it all, eagles circled lower and lower,
not hunting, just waiting,
confusing ownership with altitude.
At the tree line, feral coyotes laughed,
lean with hunger and opportunity,
patient as bankers, sharp as knives.
By dusk, the flag was unrecognizable,
mud-slick, torn, still invoked,
and everyone agreed it had suffered heroically.
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