superstitious

This morning, I'm glad that I don't believe in omens.

It is the 7th of April, season of blossoms and birdsong, and yet when I opened my front door to let Janie outside this morning, the porch was coated in downy white...as was my longsuffering LeBaron, which took a good ten minutes to heat up when I at last mustered the courage to sprint outside and start the engine. Now snow in April could be considered a happy omen, but only when classes are cancelled, and today they were not.

Speaking of birdsong, I almost squished a robin as I walked up to work at 7 o'clock. The air was still inky and distractingly cold, and I didn't see the poor creature on the walk until it stirred and flailed out of my way before stiffening again into immobility at the base of a snowy tree.

An hour later, I drove home to pick up my housemates. On the side of the road, a raven stood perched over the limp carcass of a hare. I've been searching for a happy way to interpret that chilling sight ever since.

I remind myself again that I do not live in a Flannery O'Conner novel, that omens do not carry any inherent meaning but rather acquire the meanings we assign. And yet I know that, should anything ill-fortuned occur today, the superstitious crone that haunts the swampiest areas of my brain will start her vindictive cackling.