The drizzling fog caught me by surprise when I was picking mushrooms in the swampy thickets of the Pripyat forests. Raindrops shone like small beads on the darkened needles of rare young fir trees. Nothing prevented this resting massif, immersed in the spreading coolness: neither the knocking of a busy woodpecker, nor the rustling of small game in the tall grass, nor the crackling and crackling of the branches of old pines, dried up over the summer, resting their lush crowns of needles on the whitish sky. And I did not interfere with the forest with my quiet hunt...