The Prevailing Flag

It was just a year ago when the breeze whispered, when the duets of sparrows and blue jays were heard, when the cloudless skies devoid of contrails hugged the wheat fields soon burned.
 
Hesitantly, I tip toed to the piano, my wrist shaken, my fingers curved back. My fingertips skimmed both keys—the gun powder white and oil black.
 
Closing my eyes, my parent’s Kyiv apartment, blood red brick appeared. It was a square once crowded,  but now even crickets cleared.
 
As I refocus my foot on the pedal and blindly place my hands, the melodies hold one another so each note rings their voice. My fingers danced to the melody of Ukraine, the great Chervona Ruta we sat around the camp fire and rejoiced.
 
Although outside, the whispers became taunts and screams, our flag stood sturdy on its pole. The unity in its pieces held it through whatever toll.
 
As these same sparrows launched themselves at the blue and gold fabric, I realized that they only clawed a minute hole.