September 11, 2020: On this nineteenth birthday of America’s wound, standing in a desolate park silently crumbling atop a decommissioned underground nuclear missile silo, I look up to witness two bald eagles, two American spirits soaring above me across the hazy sky, veering west to the nearby yet barely visible mountains, disappearing into the smoke smeared horizon, the dying day casting an orange glow through the ashen wind. A disturbing omen.
Two great spirits racing towards the inferno, caring only to win the race, victory at any cost, oblivious to all else, hurtling as fast as they can into their doom.
Our doom.
