the bitch

It was morning, and in the rye-bin, Where the rows of gold mats were spread, A dog littered seven puppies, Seven puppies, brownish-red. She fondled them until evening And combed them smooth with her tongue, While the light snow melted beneath her Where her warm belly hung. But when night came and the chickens Were speckling their roosting rack, Out came her grim-faced owner And put all seven in a sack. She went running over the snowdrifts, Trying to match his pace... And for a long, long time shudders Shook the unfrozen water’s smooth face. When she wearily dragged her feet back, Licking the wet from her side, She thought the moon over the cottage Was one of her pups that had died. And gazing high, whining loudly, She stared at the blue sky until The thin moon slid on and vanished In the fields behind the hill. And, softly, as if someone, while jesting. Had thrown her a stone — even so Tears now rolled down from her dog-ejes Like golden stars into the snow.