In one of his lectures, Roy Diblik asks how many plants we know that don't act like themselves. The answer is none, and I, acting like myself, cut my finger pruning the quince tree. I was using a saw when I should have used the pruners. I'm not sure I'll ever learn, and I don't really mind.
Seed-starting is a nice February chore, but pruning fruit trees is a delight. Each tree has its own way of growing, and each branch you take off is a suggestion. You respond to the tree, and the tree responds to you. No one talks enough about response. It's the thing that matters- everywhere, always.
The trees I don't prune this time of year are the mulberries and the peaches. Local advice is to prune peaches in late winter, but peaches tend not to live long here. Pruning peaches in spring, like they do in many places, seems more suited to their fast-growing, tender nature. Anyway, that's what I'm doing. I may be wrong.
I heard someone describe a newly pruned olive tree as looking like a bride. I don't know what that means, but I like looking at my trees* as they are now, ready for what comes next. And I like looking at the peach tree, too. It's rosy, limber, and fuzzy-budded: just what you'd think a peach tree should be. Even in February
*Except the quince tree- my pruning job there was a bit of a mess