The First Omen: A Bird in the Sink

The bird in the kitchen sink is an omen, I think.
The house is sealed against the humid summer heat: the window frames are swollen and stuck; blinds and drapes are drawn defensively against sunlight.
I don't know how it got inside.
Uninterested, the cat is a puddle on the cool kitchen tile.
Overall, the household is undisturbed.
I dig out a pair of mittens from the hall closet and carry the bird outside, onto the front lawn. It doesn't flinch. A few bully crows gang up and encircle the small bird, who is motionless and unaware as they close in. I save the unfortunate creature and put it in a box in the garage .

Twilight stirs me from the sofa, where I have been dozing all afternoon. Night spreads upward from the horizon like an indigo stain, dousing the burning sky.
The house is tense, so I open the windows easily and they exhale the stale breath it has been holding in. I open my lungs to the warm, fresh air and go outside to check on the bird.
It is where I left it, but something is changed. The box is transformed into a coffin.
The moon is unblinking. The air is static, and unaffected.