A Dog Gave Birth to Seven Pups

In the rye shed at the break of day,

Where burlap rows gleam gold in the grey,

A dog gave birth to seven pups so bright,

Seven ginger pups beneath the cold light.

She cradled them till evening fell with care,

Licking each one with tender love and flair,

And melted snow seeped softly, drop by drop,

Under her warm belly, never letting stop.

But when the evening came and chickens roosted tight,

Perched on the roosting bar in quiet flight,

The master stepped out, dark and stern and cold,

And put all seven pups inside a sack, behold.

Across the drifts she ran, her heart in throat,

Trying to keep up, chasing every note,

And for so long the open water's face

Quivered and trembled in that frozen place.

When she crept back, exhausted, worn, and slow,

Licking the sweat from her tired, aching flank,

The moon above the cottage, pale and bright,

Seemed like one of her lost pups in the night.

She gazed into the blue sky, whimpering low,

Her cry ringing out where the winds freely flow,

But the thin moon glided, smooth and silver-thin,

And slipped behind the hill, lost in the fields within.

And quietly, like when they throw a stone in jest,

As if it's some mocking gift, you understand the rest,

Her dog eyes welled with tears, so deep and still,

Rolling down like golden stars upon the snowy hill.