He furleth close; contented so to look
And gather info on his prey. Today.
Tonight the wings unfurl, as black as soot,
As cold as rain, a mighty push: Away!
With wingèd breaths, he soars above tableaus
Of green, with spots of color popping bright.
He sees his mark and edges closer; though
Is still in darkness, covered, out of sight.
He watches only: glaring, piercing eyes
That keep the hold, unable to release.
The pull, the grab, the never-ending drive:
It keeps, it kills, it weeps, it thrills. It beats.
Now flying back to nest, the beast can rest.
He’s weary: un-confessed and quite obsessed.
“He furleth close; contented so to look”
From “The Human Seasons” by John Keats
Randomly chosen (page, line) from a book of poetry