Midstride I halt,
back-pedal my feet.
Unable to resist
I walk to the split-rail fence.
On the feathery green
of a flower-bordered yard
a small corral of wire
holds a scramble of puppies:
eleven, six weeks old, each
a different pattern in black and white.
Chubby Springer spaniel bodies
bounce, tumble over each other,
emit shrill complaints,
cry for their mother.
From the house, their human
arrives, opens a gate
for her active young ones.
Half the babies stream
toward their next snack.
The rest explore the yard,
poke noses under rocks,
into roses, at the cup of my hand.
I now understand
nature’s grand plan
in making babies beautiful.
I, who never yearned for a pup,
want to gather up an armful,
carry them home.
This poem first appeared in the San Gabriel Valley Poetry Quarterly (#22, 2004).
Used here with the author’s permission.
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