When the muse supplies subject matter

<p>Without sufficient coffee in me this morning, I notice with growing irritation: the mourning doves are more insistent than usual. One unambiguous song—dih DAH dahhh—dih DAH dahhh—a telegraph gone haywire. Is there a noise ordinance for bordering-on-annoying morning mourning doves? Fluttering wingbeats and a tap-scrape on the screen door. While I bend to my work, wracking my brain on what to write—something more about my favorite subject in nature, perhaps, but what extraordinary birds have I seen in the past 24 hours?—wingbeats and tap-scrape again. I go to the door to see what is what. A dove comes in for a skillful touch-and-go at the screen. What could mourning doves possibly want from me? Then I see what they are telegraphing me: <em>The FEEDER’S empty. The FEEDER’S empty.</em></p>