About the work

The pigeon on the concrete floor just outside the garage door has been coming here for a long time. It knows the rhythms of the boys who live in the house – the slamming of the door, the sudden bursts of loud music, the smell of cheap deodorant and something sweet like bubblegum. It has seen the family cars come and go, watched seasons change through the grimy window. Today, the pigeon is picking at something in the faint oil slick on the ground, oblivious to the bright nylon and the ripped seam. It will fly away soon, leaving behind only the memory of its small, bobbing head, and the question of what exactly it found worth eating in the exhaust fumes and dust.