The Hawk of the Mind

No mind, no mind. What settles down around me
must not be left for the rain to wash away.
I need my mind, but no, it will not answer.
The maples are darkening in the August day.
The standing grass is drying into hay.
Swallows, fledged and grown, chatter in the sky
or warm themselves on the rooftree.
Their blood has not yet been spilled,
but the hawk of the mind is waiting.