Crock’s Thoughts

Like a weathered barn, Her paint is worn and frayed, the colors of Old Glory dim in time’s sharp blade; but strong, unshaken beams hold fast against the gale, a testament of strength when lesser structures fail. As the sun dips below, a long light’s closing hour, two hundred fifty years dissolve, but not Her freedom and power. From this red, splintered wall, the golden light of dusk is but a promise of the dawn that’s yet to pass. For every setting sun, there comes a rising new, and for the next two-fifty, America stands true…

Happy 250! 🇺🇸

Happy Independence Day! 🎉🎆