The heat arrives like an anvil
the ferns slump
my ankles ripen
with their own heartbeats
and even the mud looks thirsty
we crouch on the edge of the deck
watching two butterflies
their powdery wings
slow and quiet
unafraid of our bulky gaze
like that heat wave in New York
when I stopped looking both ways
stopped noticing anything
except the burning air
it’s only the robin
bright and optimistic
in her shady nest above our door
who seems untouched by the heat
my husband worries
that the blue eggs aren’t fertilized
he Googled it and learned
they should have hatched by now
but I am sure she can sense them
their tiny steady need
there is no other explanation
inside this lazy heat
for all that hope.