Magpies

There is a poem about magpies.

No one can hear it if you say it or shout it or scream it.

In your head.

 

One for sorrow

Two for joy

Three for a girl

Four for a boy

Five for silver

Six for gold

Seven for a secret never to be told

Eight for a wish

Nine for a kiss

Ten for a bird

You must not miss.

 

I did not know what it looked like. Before.

The Magpie.

 

Now.

 

I can hear it. Before I see it.

In my peripheral vision.

 

A Magpie.

 

Look up. On top of a chimney. A satellite dish. Perched on a tree. Mid-flight. Telephone wire. Pylon. Branch. Landing.

Look right.

 

A Magpie.

 

Straight ahead. On the platform. Pavement. Grass. In the distance. A field. Roaming. Free.

Look left.

 

A Magpie.

 

One Magpie. Two.

One.

One.

 

One Magpie.

 

Looking at me.

Staring. At me.

 

When I see a magpie, I know that something bad is going to happen. My heart starts to race and my body becomes tense because I don’t know how bad the bad thing is going to be. I could fall off a bridge in a bus and burst into flames. Or a tiger could escape from the zoo and chase me. If I stop running, the tiger could kill me. Or I could basically just die. I imagine all the bad things that could happen so I can prepare. It makes my skin tingle and my mouth go dry. Sometimes I even forget to breathe.

I am always looking. Always ready. Always waiting.

To see. And to count.

 

One for sorrow.

One for sorrow.

One for sorrow.