MOURNING DOVES have always meant Summer to me. Their soft cooing on a warm June morning. The whistling of their wings in the neighborhood during a game of catch or wiffle ball. The nuanced beauty of their feathers in the sun. They were a part of my childhood, especially the two summers I spent in Alton, Illinois with my grandparents, where a sometimes lonely boy enjoyed their company on the green and leafy street of an old southern river town.

They are a gentle bird, unsuited to cold northern winters. Yet we have four of them here in the piney woods this winter, coming every day, sheltering in the woods and gathering crumbs from the feeding stations in Fellowship Hall here at the Church O The Pines. It is a pleasure to see them, and to hear their whistling wings. Too late now for a trip to Mexico or more southern climes. So we feed them and enjoy their company. And in the midst of the latest cold snap, dream of soft June mornings together.