Following it with our eyes is always a surprise. It arouses your curiosity. It calls you. It grabs you to train you in the hollows. Dawdled in the valleys. And without letting yourself catch your breath, reach the ridges of the mounds and hills.
The stroller escapes along this emaciated pass asleep in his suspicion of winter sleep. And from arpent to arpent, from fields to woods, he is walked along the paths and roads. He is enjoying this silence, this external calm. And while walking, he perceives the riches lavished by these skeletons.
The walker is going.
The animal him, rests, feeds, flees.
Rooted, strong. It is proud to be the protector, the architect, the foster of its land.
The bocage. Without it, the campaign is orphan, sad, impoverished.
The bocage is for its land a mine, a treasure.