I sheltered next to the open driver’s door, engine running. The wind blew rain into the car, covering the seat and steering wheel with cold, wet drops. As I clipped the brilliant orange branches of a quince somehow surviving in the rock-covered median, I made a mental note to keep a towel in the car for the next time I steal parking-lot flowers in the rain in Wisconsin April.

The more I have a little break from the camera, the more I realize how much work I was doing – and how important it is to let the tide of that inner demand ebb away for a little while. So, last Sunday I ate the most delicious baked potato with my friends, who also make sure I get to see Season 1 of “Only Murders in the Building.” Because otherwise I would not have seen Jane Lynch as Steve Martin’s stunt double. And that would be absolutely tragic.

So I’m grateful for spring’s ornery weather, and the recollection of impossibly coral petals, that willingly bloom in the rock-covered edges of places where nothing ornamental belongs. And for the long nights that draw us together, waiting for the oven to turn potatoes into tender delights – while the branches take their rest.