Broken broken broken
my high gray room.

How did it happen?
My hill on wet stilts.

Who made off with
the sudden searing roots?

They were showing us
how it feels to belong.

Thus a hermit thrush
at the end of summer,
whose bog occupies the spot

where 8000 years ago
a castle of ice dissolved
into a watery keep.

Latter-day invaders have left
their jagged ladders
for the woodpeckers

& perfectly preserved
in the tannic waters,
their empty nets.

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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).


  1. A sweet, sorrowful poem. I love the birds’ song, particularly the first two couplets. Simple and powerful.


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