On the West edge of Binger,
Up the hill before the road turns left,
With a fine perfect lawn,
grass that is green when the water falls,
Mowed and cut to perfection, and lined with the iron fence of wheels,
Wheels of wagons past,
Steel circles of big and small,
That covered the redness of this almost plane, pulling the peanuts of yesterdays fields to the surface,
Letting them cure on the top, and then packing them off to dry some more.
A perfect fence, of big, then small then bigger, than smaller, welded straight, with iron spokes inside, and making the world go round.
Ralph Peck
Photo by Ralph Peck
Binger, Oklahoma
on the Western Rise
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