Bluebird

He came with the rain, decades ago when the forest here was still saplings, back when we were growing sod and Mama was crying every night that the drought would ruin us. I heard him before I saw him that first time, a cheerful whistle coming up the road. 

“Don’t talk to him,” the neighbors whispered. “That boy’s bad luck.”

Written for ficwip’s 2023 anthology.