not a ruse, not heat, not the fire lapping up the creek

String of days. I feel like there's a hex on me, even if I poured one out into the dry creekbed in the soaking rain at Elkhorn Saturday. I've tried to follow the good advice of not practicing in between these two chaos eclipses. Still it seems to follow me: bad luck, my crows acting like unhappy ghosts, the dead plants, the unsharpened knife slicing my thumb down to bone. If some sorcerer put a spell on me, I'd surely deserve it, or maybe it's just my own dumb self echoing back on me.