But mourning doves have no long-term memories, I concluded, because the blasted creature would be back the next day.
the morning when there was no dove.
Instead there was a nest. Resting mainly on the stone ledge, it overflowed onto the old eunonymus vine which Jon trimmed to the same height.
Once again, I had harassed an expectant mother.
It wasn't much of a nest but the intent was clear. They (for indeed there were two, identical and thoroughly married) had been setting up their nursery and, sure enough, the next day someone was sitting on the first egg -- small and white, but already valued beyond price.
Since that day (April 9th) I have been quietly appearing in the window, scratching and yawning (see 8/8/16 in the archive) and we have established a workable menage a trois, though I wish they wouldn't call me "The Huge, Hulking but Harmless Horror." Camera at the ready and angled awkwardly, I skulk. Mourning doves are even more beautiful than I had thought. Of particular note are the pale turquoise eye rings.
Thus we co-exist and at least for now dawns are quiet. I am under no illusion that this will last. Baby birds have huge mouths from which utter competitive and piercing cries. In the meantime, a palette knife series is underway. This one is tentatively #2. The opening bars of this opus will invoke one scrawny but serviceable nest that accomplishes no more than the basics. The Taj Mahal it ain't but these two are parental royalty already.