I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed.
Inaction, no falsifying
Between my hooked head and hooked feet:
Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat.
The convenience of the high trees!
The air's buoyancy and the sun's
Are of advantage to me;
And the earth's face upward for my inspection.
My feet are locked upon the rough bark.
It took the whole of
To produce my foot, my each feather:
Now I hold Creation in my
Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly -I kill where I please because it is all mine.
There is no sophistry in my body:
My manners are tearing off heads -The allotment of death.
For the one path of my flight is
Through the bones of the living.
No arguments assert my right:
The sun is behind me.
Nothing has changed since I began.
My eye has permitted no change.
I am going to keep things like this.
