Thursday, A Little Before the School Bus is Due How do I write about how I got from washing dishes in the kitchenwatching sparrows fighting and mating and nesting through the window over the sinkhands damp with soap bubbles and bits of last-night’s dinner to here,curled up in the yard, knees against my chest, sharp blades of dry grasspoking my cheek? There must have been a moment when I put down the dishes and opened the door, walked down the stairs and consciouslydecided to lie down on the grass, assumed this position, it all seems so importantnot that I know how I got here, but that I don’t move from this spot. Sometime this summer, I will build a bat house with my daughter to hangin the tree, just above where the sparrows have all built their nests. I can see my handsworking with wood, expertly, without splinters or pain or mistakes.Somehow, I’ll get near the top of the tree, find only steady branches to balance onnail them into place. My daughter will be so amazed, I can picture her amazement at mycarpentry skills, my tree-climbing skills, my gentle rapport with nature.I am the best mom ever. I close my eyes and see all of these actions so clearly I’m surethey must already be done, there is no need to build bat housesor paint extra bird houses, or nail anything to anything. If I can getfrom the kitchen to the back yard without remembering even taking a stepthen these things I can imagine in such detail, with such claritymust already have happened without me, too. Holly Day has taught writing classes at the Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis, Minnesota, since 2000. Her poetry has recently appeared in Tampa Review, SLAB, and Gargoyle, and her published books include Walking Twin Cities, Music Theory for Dummies, and Ugly Girl.