You built a birdhouse in the backyard, for your mother, on Mother’s Day. Standing on the second-to-top step of the painter’s ladder, you explained, with four nails in your hand, how she would wake up one day to the music of tree swallows chirping, that it was an invitation, not capture. And this would be your present. Your mother went back inside the house and poured you a glass of coffee and grabbed her phone so that a picture was taken. Your mother joked that if your brother, the banker, got a hold of this photo, then who even knows what comes next? The caption might read Welcome to the Bat House! or Mother’s Day, 1913. After Danny posted the picture online (Of Hippy with Hammer), I saw your palm pressed lightly against the tall, smooth tree—the pressing—from my computer to where you last smiled: your leaning, forward in the black skirt, screeching that shiny Ford Fiesta to a halt along the Kingston–Rhinecliff Bridge; a woman who ditched her car so she could run to the side barrier and dangle a microphone cable over steel railings, 406 feet up, and press record—you said it was important to capture the sound of the wind beneath traffic. The gridlock you created! And when you played the tape back for the rest of the class, you wondered if anyone would listen for the sheets that you folded, the stutter of wings and air below the honking of cars. I tell you, the whole college did.