Sequoia and Pine were two pigeons who lived at a park near my place, both of which passed away. I found Sequoia first, right after they had been attacked by other birds. She died in my hands. I had tried to save her, but the injury was in the worst possible place, right in between the wing and the neck. Pine, I didn’t even know it was her until she never appeared again at the park. Hit by a car. I had gently picked up their lifeless body and buried it, next to where I buried Sequoia, a week earlier. Both pigeons lie underneath this rock, and every day I feel the need to change the plant on top of it. Usually I place flowers.
