"To leave is to die a little, it is to die to what one loves. One leaves a bit of one’s self in every hour and in every place. It’s always the mourning of a vow, the last verse of a poem. To leave is to die a little, it’s to die to what one loves. And one leaves, and it’s a game, and up to the last farewell, it’s one’s own soul that one disperses in each farewell". Edmond Haraucourt...

As every year, in the fields around here where I live, beginning to bloom red poppies in the midst of still immature ears of wheat, unequivocal signals that summer is getting closer and closer. I love the low morning light on these fields which temporarily highlights these red hot spots...waiting for the high golden beam of the ears in full bloom within a few weeks. "Preparing for summer" is the new photo of the month on my...