When I got home today and went out back, there was a dead cedar waxwing at my feet: delicate tawny feathers, tail-tip dipped in yellow, waxy red wingtips, its feet curled into its tiny body, eyes squeezed shut in agony as it took its final gasping breaths through a broken neck. Another window strike.

I don’t believe in omens, or signs, or that things happen for a reason.

I do believe in luck.

The tornado that tore through yesterday killed people, destroyed homes, ripped trees out by the roots, and yet my Facebook feed is full of thank God my family is safe, we went to our shelter and we prayed and we prayed and this is further testimony that God is good and He kept us from harm.

Streets away from catastrophe, my house sits untouched. The power stayed on. The yard is free of debris. The small dish I use to serve mealworms still swings on its hook. None of our windows blew out. And I didn’t pray at all.

I turned fresh worms when I dug the hole in the garden to bury the bird and now mockingbirds and cardinals are dancing on its grave.

I guess if my windows had shattered the waxwing would still be alive.