I had that feeling again, though, and I followed it. I walked a less familiar route as it urges me to do, and then BAM!
Another dead bird.
I felt a hard stone settle into my gut. It felt like the world had committed a perfidious act.
I know that birds fall out of the sky all the time. They hit buildings. Cars run into them. They die like all things must. I know this, and yet it feels like there is something more. I follow my gut, and there they are.
It feels like I should be divining some truth.
According to some dream interpretations, a dead bird can symbolize disappointments. I am worrying over problems that I can't stop thinking about. Some suggest that it is a request to put my life in the service of my goals, that my ideals or hopes of freedom are being threatened.
Pigeons in particular can suggest that I am taking the blame for the actions of others. They may be the carriers of messages from my unconscious. They can also suggest a desire to return home.
These ideas push my life into the service of a difficult narrative. I want things to be easy.
Scrying one's life, its patterns, the mysterious bits that fall out in between appointments and jobs and general upkeep, feels dangerous. I might see through to something else. It makes me nervous. It makes the more obvious reality to which I am most accustomed feel fragile.
Patterns come together and patterns fall apart to become new patterns, and stories journey from them, broken pieces into wholes and then broken again.
Maybe these are just birds I'm finding. Maybe they aren't anything else at all. Maybe there is a dead bird to find on every block.
There's that feeling in my gut, though, and it knows better.