I work at my desk, the retriever at my feet.

His bark is his, usually ballistic, warning when we hear knocking at the door. This is polite but insistent.

We are both surprised, I think, and when I open the door he’s ready to charge though. His wagging tail signals his real intent– that he’ll find a friend with an eagerness to pet. There’s nobody there. I double check. The driveway is empty. We have few walk-ins out here in the country.

I check the side door. The front. Nobody.

Reentering the house I am reminded of the old horror movies. The deranged killer knocking to get me to one door while he slips in another and hides, knife ready to attack.

The retriever doesn’t think so. If he’s not concerned, neither am I.

We have just gotten back to work (I write; he rests) when the tapping begins again. What?

Slowly, for it is not steady, dog and I stealthily follow the sound . . . into the dining room.

A yellow-bellied sapsucker sits on the window sill happily pecking away. He flits from window to window but stays mainly on the one side of the wall. He flutters a little, a wonderful sight, and then resumes his pecking.

Can this, I wonder, be the same pesky bird who woke me all last summer with his compositions for the television antenna? Can it possibly be another? I figure I have been spared that serenade this season by the addition of the two large TV dishes to the roof. A source of much disgruntlement to me, blessedly useful of course but so ugly, at least they have allowed more reasonable sleep.

The camera is set up on its tripod and shooting begins.

Please let the developed product be as sharp and clear as what I am seeing through my viewfinder, for this bird is fearless.

I am able to get as close as I could want. Preparing this for publication fifteen years after it was written, I say another huge thank you that the days of developing photographs are over. I never appreciated the wait to see what I had, if anything.

My sapsucker seems an accommodating subject. He pecks on the screened window, but flies off when I crank it open a tad and then, I’m happy to see, he returns to a clear pane which allows me an unimpeded shot.

Though he is on the north side of the house and the first shots are taken in very low light, the sun soon moves around and I can continue clicking with my sapsucker highlighted brightly.

I stop only when I imagine I have shot from every possible angle and either have him or don’t.

Returning to my writing now, I reflect on the male cardinal who hammered away at the attic window one summer long. From all I’ve been told and all I’ve learned, this is a silly bird trying to fend off a close-by rival. “Bird-brained” we know but, really, I give birds a great deal of credit for all they can accomplish: setting up a new home, populating it and then caring for the kids until they mature. That, to me, requires a great deal of industry . . . and patience. Instinct? Sure, but they get it right. And if one wants to wear out his beak attacking glass day after day, let him go at it. I’ll treasure the pictures I hope I’m getting — and the beautiful birds who do visit, sore schnozzola or not.

Susan Crossett has lived outside Cassadaga for more than 20 years. A lifetime of writing led to these columns as well as two novels. “Her Reason for Being” was published in 2008 with Love in Three Acts following in 2014. Both novels are now available at Lakewood’s Off the Beaten Path bookstore. Information on all the Musings, her books and the author may be found at Susancrossett.com.