The farm on the dirt road,
Where it’s occupants sat on Friday evening,
And looked across at the hundred acres planted, with wheat, tall and foaming,
As the water of the sea would roll, across this dry earth, waiting for the combine, and the trailers, to lift the harvest, and watch the hawks pulling their circles. The farmer tipped up that jar of tea, pulling on a cigarette, and watched it all in silence.
Ralph Peck
Photography by Barb Wedel Morris
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