The locusts have landed. A few on Granny's land; many more further down the hill when she walked the dogs. Last year, in March, they were pink or yellow. This year they are all RED. She will have to investigate this. They fly like little birds. They are indecently large for insects. She has changed her mind about the merits of a plague. Not only her plants decimated but everyone's. They work hard for them here.
Technology a little further advanced. But still not connected. Beloved is ever more elaborately cooking.