Bone Distilling Birth with a Pinch of Death

You rushed the blood of how many lambs
From barn to stove without raising a single why. 
You scoured the skies along the way for signs of hail.

You taught yourself to utter the alphabet three times 
In your sleep, knowing your dreams would spin
The letters into words, the words into short, dark songs.

You often come to a barren stretch of road littered
With white crows, the grain spilling from hand to hand. 
Hand to trough. Trough on down to frozen earth.