On a cold, gray September morning,
On an airbase far from home,
Warriors stood in tribute to those fallen,
To fire and death that struck without warning.

No one shuffled, teased, laughed or talked,
Just the quiet bootfalls of a guard of honor,
Police and firemen, guardians both,
While to the flagpole they walked.

Fighters launched into that dismal gray sky,
Their sky-ripping roar softened to an angry growl,
Like a Panther lying in wait,
To avenge those that did not have to die.

The wind tore at our flag, trying to bind,
To wrap her around the pole where she flew.
But she ripped free and with a snap unfurled,
Too strong to hold back, the wind did find.

Half-staff but proud, our flag flew,
Through cold rain and colder sorrow,
While the sound of Taps echoed around us,
Solemn, sweet, pure and true.

She snapped in the wind, defiant and proud.
Like ours, her rage was strong, but quiet.
As the music fell silent, and heads began to rise,
We were done being quiet, it was time to get loud.

Jon Krusinski,  Staff Sergeant in the USAF, stationed at
 RAF Lakenheath, UK.