One-shot poems, 5 a.m.

A ladybug is sleeping on the letter N.
Somehow this reminds me to go turn
the thermostat up.
Full moon above the low cloud ceiling.
Under their roof of snow a city of voles.
In the not-quite dark of the not-yet light,
silhouette of an opossum against the snow
scuttling from tree to tree.
Directly underneath me where
I sit and type,
something is chewing.
The eaves grow longer teeth,
ice dams overflow.
My burrow is damp.
The moon shows its face for half a minute
through a thin screen of cloud,
snow falling sideways.

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Dave Bonta (bio) crowd-sources his problems by following his gut, which he shares with 100 trillion of his closest microbial friends — a close-knit, symbiotic community comprising several thousand species of bacteria, fungi, and protozoa. In a similarly collaborative fashion, all of Dave’s writing is available for reuse and creative remix under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 United States License. For attribution in printed material, his name (Dave Bonta) will suffice, but for web use, please link back to the original. Contact him for permission to waive the “share alike” provision (e.g. for use in a conventionally copyrighted work).

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