Breakfast is chunks of apple dug out, super fast speed. They hurl their diggings behind them, heads down, faces flaked with white. And I guess it's survival for them, except it starts to look like a game when a squabble turns into a chase, turns into a slide, turns into a pile up, ice hockey style. The victor is doing a slick lap of glory, cleaning up, stuffing his cheeks full of pickings before racing off along the phone wire to his twiggy nest.
The rest of the gang move into the vine, where bunches of black grapes droop as if the weight of snow is about to make the boughs break. And while the adults sit back to feast on selected bunches, it's back to the game for the little ones. I look down on them as they leap up and grab with tiny hands. The juice drips onto the snow like purple ink.