Look at our American flag as I saw it out our bay window last Tuesday. It somehow arrayed itself into that odd folded, kinked configuration and was just stuck there, suspended. I whipped out my phone and quickly snapped a photo, then stepped onto the porch. It was still like that. I took another another photo, and thought to shift to video. But by by then the flag had simply relaxed, drooping back into its usual draped shape. I took a third.
What happened? I don't know. I imagine some intersection of the breeze, the dynamics of the fabric, the temperature. But I can't know for sure. Maybe you have theories. I suppose it could have been something supernatural—the flag itself cringing in utter patriotic revulsion away from the soil of the country it represents. I do know this: in 21 years of flying a flag off my front porch—I wrote about acquiring this particular flag from the venerable W.G.N. Flag & Banner Company at 79th and South Chicago Avenue—I've never seen anything like this, and I imagine should I live here another 21 years, I'll never see it again.