This summer slinks languid, blanketed under a humidity I can taste. Mid-afternoon, a heavy yellow fog crawls on its belly into the yard. Its stickiness stifles my writing, sleeping, eating, dreaming. These hips suck in the damp—terry cloth on Kool-Aid. By early evening, the fluid-filled sacks (bursa) “protecting” my joints threaten to burst. Summertime hips, like ball bearings on rusted steel, shudder in protest of an after-dinner stroll; forget about a bike ride. I limp into the yard under thunderheads black enough to drink me up. I watch the cardinals make ready for the storm. They puff and twill over grumbled thunder until I’ve forgotten these defunct hips. Easing my bones into the faded lounge chair, I lie curled in wait—amazed and fetal as the day I was born.