When the gods start bowling in the sky,
my wee, little dog starts in to cry
and seeks a spot secure and up high,
tucked behind my head.
She whines ’til the thunderstorm goes by
and will not go to bed.
She’s such a brave and fearsome critter,
but howling, loud winds set her a jitter.
Listen to how her heart goes pitter
pat. Her quaking chest
betrays her fear. She’s all a twitter,
and can get no rest.
When the dark skies are weeping sadly
my sweet dog is behaving badly:
she sneaks under my pillow, gladly,
to hide from the storm,
and cries and whimpers, low and madly
tho’ she’s inside and warm.
20 Jun 2025
© 2025, John Litzenberg. All rights reserved.
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