A pair of ravens, vivid against the pale sky, swooped overhead. He stopped abruptly, remembering the supernatural knack these birds had for sensing death. He couldn’t explain it, but he had seen them before, roosting on the homes of those whose time on earth was ending. He bowed his head. Maybe they wouldn’t settle in Little Nettlebed today. He prayed that they were simply passing through.
2 are meant to be lucky, though.
