I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed.
Inaction, no falsyfing dream
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 ray
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 Creation
To produce my foot, my each feather:
Now I hold Creation in my footOr 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 direct
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.