Bone, Authoress of the Day of Crows

That August, he worried if one lamb 
Could carry the family well past the last few snows.

Who, though, speaks crow at that age. 
A year later, and he would’ve known to sleep

In the barn the night before leading her to slaughter. 
He would’ve fed her dried apricot slices,

Her favorite, by hand. He would’ve read
To her from the book on clouds he had found,

The wind picking up, dawn coming fast. 
The thaw, closer than those with no time for art.