By grace of God and sky above,
blue eyes gaze upon the snow.
The world is frozen, silent and deep,
as moons pale light, begins to creep.
Deep In his cave, the grizzly slumbers,
while birds have left, a chasing summer.
The roaring river has turned to glass,
no sound disturbs it, as they pass.
Winding through a trail of pines,
where moonlight often, fails to shine.
The dogs of winter in single file,
strong legs driving, eating up the miles.
Heading down ole Crawford pass,
the smell of smoke, home at last.
The old man waits behind the door,
Jug of whiskey, on the cabin floor.
Dawgs bound up on the porch,
eyes aglow from the lanterns torch.
From inside sounds a mighty guffaw,
with raspy voice, like a rusty chainsaw.
Bout time you dawgs got back,
as he opens the old door a crack.
They jump and dance, and bust right in,
excited so much, they whine and spin.
With twinkle of eye, and miners hat,
he dishes up bowls of stew, fatback.
They share a meal of partnership,
it’s not about any ownership.
In summer they run, wild and free,
in winter they come work for a fee.
They pull his heavy sleds of ore,
year after year, just like before.
Out here in the middle of nowhere,
nothing is free, but cold Alaskan air.
The dawgs of winter made a pact,
that old man can attest the fact.
Nuttin but family here in my shack,
The dawgs of winter are back.