By Ted Hughes
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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I had a pile of stuff to get done on Wednesday, with mixed success -- it was the kind of morning where I counted having made it into the shower and having put a bunch of last week's clothes away a victory. I got some work and some cleaning done, and we had squirrels, chipmunks, and bunnies being industrious right outside.
Before dinner, I ran out to catch a few Entei during raid hour. We caught up on Succession, in which someone called Kendall "Oedipus Roy" which alone made it worth watching, and On Becoming a God in Central Florida, in which Dunst is great but there's too much violence against animals. Birds of prey from the Pennsylvania Renfaire:
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