Bowling Green is surrounded by a patch of cobblestoned sidewalks, and the pigeon was lying in the sun on the uneven stones. It was on its side and stiff, dead. I almost stepped on it. When I finally moved away a van backed into the spot he'd been waiting for and parked its ass. The shade would keep it safe for a bit.

They found it outside in the parking lot, and brought it in, scooped with a plastic bowl. The bowl sat on our teacher's desk through Earth Science, algebra, and English Composition.

It was a small small thing, transluscent pink and tiny beak. Little beads for eyes and you could see veins, blue and quivering through its skin-like membrane. No feathers. Spindly legs like slivered toothpicks, heaving. When it stopped, we buried it near the climbing tree and went back inside.

It is snowing today and people are using umbrellas to save their hair. The couple in front of me crosses the street and she is so intent on wresting her umbrella open that she does not notice she has stepped on a flattened out sparrow. It is a mess of feathers and little broken bones. I can't even stop.

The nice principal, Mrs T., remembered that I was the one who buried the first almost-fledgeling and came to tell me there was another one in the school's circular driveway. This one's already dead, she said. Can you bury it?

I buried it near where I'd buried the other one. It was two years and the brick had grass growing through its holes. I found another brick to cover the freshly dug earth and they sat like twin tombstones.