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Hawk Roosting

I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed.
Inaction, no falsifying 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 foot 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 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.

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