The Adventures of Harry the Hard-Headed

There's this bird. It's a red-bellied woodpecker, to be precise, even though its head contains more scarlet than its belly. But I digress. This bird likes to find the prime spot for it's stash of suet, which is happily, generously, provided by us! It searches and searches, but only lately did Harry the Hard-Headed find the perfect spot: the gutter on the wooded-side of our house. Of course! Think of how much suet, how many sunflower seeds, would fit in such an alcove!
Trouble is, he can't get in it. He is an early worker, and he tries hard to hammer his way into our gutter.
Do you know what an energetic red-bellied woodpecker trying to get into the gutter sounds like?
It sounds like this: DATDATDATDATDATDATDATDATDATDAT.
Only, you must imagine it in the key of F, and at great speed.
Do you know what an energetic red-bellied woodpecker trying to get into the gutter sounds like at 7:30 in the morning?
DTDTDTDTDTDTDTDTDTDTDTDTDTDTDTDTDTDTDTD.
That's what it sounds like.
A pause follows, and you think it's safe.
But no, Harry is only stopping for momentum, for it comes again.
Then it happens again.

He does this nearly every morning. Persistent, that's Harry.

And now you're wondering, what about this makes you smart? Observe:
The scene begins one week ago, in the living room, at the piano which faces the driveway window. The living room is, like my upstairs bedroom, on the eastern side of the house, right by the woods. I'm deep into my romantic-era song by Chopin (the Raindrop Prelude, for those who know). Right in the middle of the thunderstorm of said song, comes this noise.
DATDATDATDATDATDATDATDATDATDATDATDAT.
The thunderstorm stops in a discordant smash on the piano as I jump a mile off the bench.

"HARRY!!" I yell.

Then I continue. This time I make it to nearly the end of the storm, the thunder fading. The rain is again softening towards the main theme. I lean in close and--
DATDATDATDATDATDATDATDATDATDATDATDAT.
I leap off the piano bench, banging my knee in my haste, proceeding to land in front of the outside door. But I don't go out. No, I wait with my hand on the knob.
I wait.
This time, when Harry hammers, I turn the knob.
But I still don't open the door. I have a brilliant plan forming. I'll get him this time, I think smugly. He'll never know what hit him.
The anticipation of scaring the bejeebers out of Harry the Hard-Headed keeps my feet frozen to the floor as I wait for his loud pecking before I try to open the door and stealthily pad across the porch. By now you probably see what I was attempting. To suddenly come out of nowhere, yelling bloody murder at that bird, well. . . maybe it would cause him to cease entirely. No more hammering at 7 in the morning!
So I wait.

And wait.

I wait for two more seconds before I release the handle and mope back to the piano bench.

Resuming my seat, I poise my fingers above the keys with a sigh.

DATDATDATDATDATDATDATDATDATDATDATDATDATDAT.

Chopin never got finished that night.