A tall man in black walks through the park, bundled up despite the moderate weather. He's more accustomed to warmer temperatures.
Huh, he thinks, watching a black and white bird peck busily at the corpse of a squirrel. Magpie. Wasn't there a poem about those? He stops and squints, trying to remember.
Ah, yes. Let's see;
One for sorrow.
Well, he thinks. Doesn't sound very pleasant. I guess- Oh, two more have joined.
Two for mirth.
Three for a funeral.
He smiles. Let's see, do I know anyone sick?
Several more fly down.
Four for a birth.
Five for silver.
Six for gold.
Seven for a secret, not to be told.
Well, I don't have to worry about Death any time soon. I haven't got any silver or gold with me, and no one I know is pregnant. I wonder if the secret-
Eight for heaven.
Nine for hell.
He frowns.
You know, I don't think I like those birds after all. Far too clever, for one thing. I- oh, one more. It was hiding in the brush the whole time.
Ten for the devil, his very own sel'.
Well, that one's accurate at least.
He glances at the birds over the rim of his dark sunglasses, eyes flickering red and orange like the inside of a coal stove.
Maybe there's something to the poem after all.