Mangia, Mangia, the men call out, throwing bread through the metal fence, its tessellating wire pattern opening onto a park, sod wet and uneven. The factory sits directly beside the park. The men sit in the adjoining alleyway, cigarettes burning holes in their mouths while they tear their lunches apart with ashy hands. Mangia swoops lithely down from the gum. He opens his mouth – his voice threads through the gaps, a loud artillery, fine and fluty. A short, descending call. Mangia, Mangia, the men say in response to his carolling, c’mon magpie, time for lunch …