The Sparrows.

It was big. Very big and blackbrown. Is there any other kind in Sydney?
I'm sitting on the tiled verandah floor in Canon Street, Stanmore. Just smoking and staring at the afternoon light playing out over the roofs of Leichhardt. - This is a few years ago, now.
It scuttled along the tiles, looking busy. Or guilty. Both, maybe. As these things do.
The two sparrows were on it before I could give it much thought. Attacking. Attacking. Damn, they were angry little monsters.
One leg. Two - three legs. This thing wasn't going anywhere now.
The 'roach is limping and they stop pecking at it. Tilt their heads and stare. A small chirrup from one and four more sparrows show up.
They don't care about me. About the small cloud of smoke.
Jumping over my stretched, crossed legs with impunity.
I should have reached out and squashed it then but I'm lazy by nature, in spite of my best intentions.
All six set in on that little warrior. Sometimes pecking. Sometimes stopping, heads tilted to admire their own handiwork. Singing gaily among themselves now.
They took their time.
And by the time I finished the small cigar, all that remained was precisely one leg and one small and dark wing.
The Greeks were fooling themselves.
Those little bastards weren't avian Charons sent down to take the living across the Styx.
Those little bastards are just like the rest of us.

Flight reaction.