I need as much good luck as the next person.

But I’ll walk right on by a penny on the sidewalk. Sure, I’ll glance down to assess the monetary value of a spilled coin, but if Abraham Lincoln’s blinking up at me, I’ll say see you later, ol’ Abe, next time make it worth my while. However, if it’s Thomas Jefferson making eyes at me, I’ll for sure bend over and scoop that nickel up, put him in a hidey hole in my bag, and save him for a day I feel like making exact change or feeding a parking meter.

Two people I know will always pick up heads-up pennies, due to the aforementioned accumulation of good luck. But if it’s a tails, jury’s out on stooping and scooping.

Another person looped into this conversation added her two cents: “It depends how close it is to pay day.” That’s fair.

Another picks up pennies no matter their heads or tails status, a habit I suspect was established in childhood when his family hiked the trail to the Crags near Divide. To incentivize the forward movement of the little guy, his mother secretly dropped pennies along the trail for him to find. It worked. He summited the 2 1/2-mile trail, albeit with a pocketful of change weighing him down.

I had two questions: How much did he earn? And didn’t he think it was suspicious that he kept finding pennies?

The answers: no idea and apparently not.

Another person who remembers how excited her son got as a little kid when he found a penny now purposefully drops them with the hopes of giving other little kids that same thrill.

What do you do about fallen pennies? And what are we doing with those coins we diligently pick up? Do people still use cash and coins these days? I rarely do. I whip out a credit card faster than you can say cash back on all purchases.

My favorite coin to find is a dime. I decided long ago that the Franklin D. Roosevelt-emblazoned token is a wink from the universe, the divine, spirit, what have you. And I’ve noticed dimes tend to turn up at serendipitous moments.

One such moment happened last summer. After a car turned in front of me at one of those ghastly traffic lights on the Bijou Street Bridge, I swerved and missed it by inches. Nobody would have died, but there certainly would have been a huge smash. And as I walked to work, my heart still racing, adrenaline and cortisol still pumping, I kept giving internal thanks to whatever invisible forces helped me avoid an afternoon of talking to police and insurance agents. And there, on the sidewalk, just as I offered another thank you, I spotted a dime. Perhaps I’m projecting, but I interpreted it as a “You’re welcome.”

Maybe this has turned from a column about picking up pennies to one about signs. Do you believe in signs? Look for them? Ask for them? Interpret them? Find yourself looking up the symbolism of a fox, turtle, dove?

Probably it won’t surprise you to hear I’m a longtime seeker of signs. But I find it perplexing that when I’ve seemingly been sent one, I’m skeptical. And think OK, but how about just one more? Just to be on the safe side.

On a recent late Friday afternoon I sat on the stone wall surrounding the newest pond in Monument Valley Park. Twilight was looming, geese were swimming, ducks were sticking their fluffy booties in the air as they dived for whatever they dive for. And I was thinking about the second dog I had an appointment to adopt the next day. I wasn’t sure it was the right move, so I requested a sign from the Great Department of Signs. Location and staff unknown to all. I wasn’t even sure if they were open on a Friday evening.

But 30 seconds later I heard something sniffing and snuffling behind me. I turned and there was an Irish setter, clearly intent on paying me a visit, a ball in his mouth, tail wagging. He stuck his head in my side, leaned into my back scratches, and then, as his owner walked up, trotted off as they headed toward the baseball diamond turned dog park.

Well, there you go. I took that as a positive nudge. And little Sam, the new mini schnauzer, is still settling in, but I think it’s going to work out.

How do you decide if a sign’s a sign? That’s the tricky part. And how did you decide something was your own personal sign? Many people believe butterflies are signs of their loved ones who have died. Heck, even one of the male suitors on this season of “The Golden Bachelorette” talked about signs. Part of an episode was devoted to the hummingbird he saw around the mansion where they stay during filming. He took it as a sign his beloved late wife approved of his quest for a new love.

One of those symbols for me, much like a dime, is a hawk. I haven’t really ascribed any sort of meaning to them, but the sight of one, particularly on a light pole as I fling myself down the interstate, feels like a tiny blessing. As does a snake, but in a different way. I recently walked through Sondermann Park and almost stumbled right into the second largest snake I’ve ever seen in the wild, second only to the rattlesnake I mistook for a branch on an overgrown trail off Colorado 115 until I heard its ominous unhappy rattling.

Turns out this particular snake was a bull snake. Harmless, gentle, peaceable. OK, sure. But it still made me jump out of my britches. After I put them back on I considered what I’ve heard about the symbolism of snakes. They’re shape shifters, sliding out of their skins and growing new ones. Maybe they’re a sign it’s time to make a change, try on a new scaly skin, and leave the old one behind.