Spring is coming too early, implies the quince. It–the quince, that is–prompts reflection. It sets buds, hundreds, opens a few every week, whatever the temperature. Resourceful. A triumph of hope in the absence of bugs. There are no pollinators out. I spend more time thinking about it than most other vegetation, to say the least. More than many more consequential things. Quince, you are my world-change barometer. Two years nearly since my last post, I have all but forgotten how to produce this blog. I am fretting over shapeshifting democracy every bit as much, feeling called to bear witness if voice can serve.