A lone dove cooed down the alley as we set out.

That's been the story of the last week or so, the number of mourning doves around town.

Absolutely frigid morning for late February. The snow was so frozen and crunchy, I checked our thermometer behind our garage. It was 9, and felt every bit of it.

I stepped lively, in part because of the cold and because of the cold I am fighting.

And in part because I am becoming more and more distraught about how arms manufacturers are defining the debate on gun violence in our country.

The latest is that a group of American arms manufacturers are aligning to not sell their arms to municipalities or areas with regulations on firearms counter to what they support.

That's unconscionable. Both by the arms manufacturers and by those who are being led astray by organizations bought and paid for by them.

I have nothing against guns. I am a proud gun owner and hunter.

I have everything in the world against allowing guns or arms manufacturers to attempt to define our lives and our politics.

That pisses me off to the core of my being.

And that's a thought for a Sunday on the way to church.

We are rapidly approaching the point of crossing a moral and ethical line with regard to arms.

We need more than radical urban priests to step up and do some preaching. It's time for rural Methodist pastors, suburban priests, rabbis and seminary scholars to raise their voices, too.

A lone dove hopped around the snow, only feet from Storm as we crossed the side rail track toward the town pond.

Overnight, the last of the open water on the town pond capped over.

The ice fishermen had their homemade ice shanty set up again on the ice cap on the south end of the south old clay pit.

The ice was plenty thick enough, so we walked out and checked things out. There was half a dozen bluegill, mostly smaller, though one was a decent size for the town pond.

Finally heard a fisew of the Canada geese on the lake to the west. I suspect they still have a small hole swam open. At this point, I believe that means they will have a hole swam open for the entire winter.

I found the hairy woodpecker working a tree near the old boat launch. A songbird I should be able to identify sang in the brush by the old rail, now a trail.

Back in town, the bank clock read 20 degrees. I believe that is way off this morning, probably from building heat radiating near it.

A gray squirrel and several mourning doves scattered from the ground seed a neighbor spreads below his tree bird feeder as the meathead and I neared home.

A guy in a compact car with a frosted windshield tossed the blue bag with the Sunday edition of the Evil Empire newspaper on a neighbor's steps.

Not even 7 a.m. and the sun was already well up, like spring; the air; on the other hand, held sharp reminders it was still winter.

This afternoon after church, it might be the day to take our younger two kids out and make use of their ice shanty if the guys are around.