When the last of the great flocks had come and gone, Mourning Dove was surprised to be called upon by her cousin, Passenger Pigeon, whom she had not seen in many an age.

“I have come to say goodbye, my dear cousin,” Pigeon said.

“But why?” said Dove.

“I am a voice in a chorus,” replied Pigeon. “Like any chorus, we must lift many voices to glory. But the voices are too few now, too few. We cannot sing, we cannot lift one another up.”

“Surely,” said Dove, “you could bear more young.”

“We find that we cannot. The chorus, it seems, is what led us to joy, led us to nest, led us to lay. Without it, there are few who can bear to raise young amid the deafening silence.”

“What then will you do?” asked Dove.

“I fear our song will soon fade away and vanish,” Pigeon replied. “That is why I have come to bid farewell.”

“What can I do?” Dove asked, despairing.

“Remember us, find joy in the remembrance, and bring forth new songs of your own. Farewell.”

Pigeon departed thereafter, and Dove never saw her again.