''A gentle visit to living water''

At the water's edge... in a river, a pond, wait for the arrival of the kingfisher.

Perhaps a cry, blue, or silence...

A bright spot stands out from the branches, you feel yourself being watched, then the dive... This perch wasn't meant for you, you've come across a kingfisher fishing for his fish.

Kingfisher

''Body exit''

Winter... a few seeds sown and you are able to contemplate the birds that have come from the north or those that have stayed, those that are not in the south, their feathers gorged with warmth.

A few seeds sown and at last the souls that made the trees sing emerge from their crowns...

These souls are hungry, and every morning is a new birth, because the cold lurks and takes away those who don't eat.

Great tit

‘’On Sundays, a race with the dogs...‘’

On the first mornings of autumn, guns emerge from their summer torpor. The sound of cannon fire overlaps on the sound of the real world, sometimes giving the impression of a war zone.

The fugitive emerges from the forest and an air of distress shatters the beauty of the moment. The bells sound like an alarm. A few seconds pass and it's the dog's turn to show his drooling face. Then the clumsy master, slowly behind, rifle in arm, seems to be well behind schedule. He doesn't have the grace of a deer, nor the flair of a dog. But he has the gunpowder in his hands and the right of life and death over people who live in a place that is not his.

All too often I see these beings as refugees living in hiding, out of sight and only coming out at night, in a court held by a single species that will judge whether their people have the right to exist or not.

European roe deer

‘’After a stormy night, golden steam...‘’

The night was filled with noise, rain and abundant light. In the morning, as the sun peaks over the ridges, the world is transformed. Everything is a machine spewing out yellow fumes. Pure, natural emanations, crushing the retinas of those who contemplate these events.

Vercors