Three odd things have lately happened to me.
I was standing by the open slider door to the back yard, when a finch flew directly at me, hovered in the air right in front of my chest for a moment, then darted past me into the house. It perched on the top cuff of my (unoccupied) boot, pooped inside it, and flew back out again.
I was washing dishes. A bird flew in through the open window, alighted on the rim of the dining room chandelier, then flew back out again.
I was sitting in the living room five minutes ago, drinking cabernet and thinking about life, when two finches flew toward the back window. One bonked against the glass and fluttered dizzily away, while the other hit the open half, came straight inside, landed on the floor, hopped about for a second, and flew back out again.
So if a bird in the house means a death is coming, and trouble comes in threes, I am in big kaka right now.