They come to me with their mouths open. Sitting at the computer eating my bowl of porridge I stop typing long enough to deposit bits of cold porridge in their mouths with a fork. The girl comes first, always first, and her brother waits patiently while she lifts her head towards me for her bite. When it is his turn I lower the fork to drop the cooked oatmeal on his tongue. Mouths full they turn and run back through the kitchen towards the front of the house.
Back and forth they run. To me and from me. Like little baby birds.