The omens are bad. Two years ago, a storm blew a baby mockingbird from its tree. I saved him from my vicious (kidding) Chihuahuas, but I could not put him back in his nest; I dare not climb the spindly branches that his parents chose to build on. Instead, I placed him in a thick set of Indian Hawthorns and his mother fed him from there.
Weird Willy survived this early trauma, but he was never quite right. Socially challenged, I’d say, and I don’t think he ever lured a mate. He went around disrupting other couples and never understood the concept: two’s company, three’s a crowd. He was amusing though.
Call me superstitious if you want, but I’m going to be very, very careful for awhile. Bad luck comes like a train wreck, one car slamming into another.