The perfect American Beauty Rose, is it diminished by the slag heaps on Rt. 11, just west of Scranton, or by the dark cloud that seems to have settled an inch or so beneath the surface of Lake Naomi, or even the swell of soot that hangs like a troubling thought over the town on the other side of the river? Is the rose there any less beautiful? Or this woman here; right now she is standing in the impatient way women have, a hip thrust out, a shoulder let low? She is casual this Sunday morning, in jeans and a simple top, and she stands at the top of the hill holding a cigarette and a leash, waiting for her dog to return. You'll have to take my word for this: she is as lovely as any rose you'll ever find on those long walks you take into the mountains, and nothing about her is diminished by the bombs that are falling this very moment on Afghanistan, the lies packed tight and neat into cartons and stacked with the rest in basements, warehouses and storage rentals throughout Washington, the three point shot dropping like a rock short of the basket in the final seconds of an important moment in someone's life. In fact, it is just the opposite: the grays around us fade—not reduced, no, nor chased away—but lost to the flush beauty of the red rose, of the women, in a moment appreciated. Anonymous submission.