I caught up with our friend later in the march. He had changed perches, and this time the gray sky provided an expansive backdrop for his formidable flag waving.
From atop his stump, against the mourning sky, he looked nothing less than a reaper with his scythe slicing through history; his eyes reflecting, rejecting, everything; his expression, hidden, betraying nothing.
Or maybe he's just a guy with a flag and some fashion sense.