Alsace, on 1900. One early morning, mists still cover roofs tired of the village. From the first beams of the sun on the plain, it is necessary to hurry. Pull his hat, adjust his vest, clean his rifle. Fill his pipe for a long walk through peat bogs.
Because this cursed curlew does not wait: very wild, it swirls in the sky repeatedly, watching for danger, shaving the ground, disappearing to returnagain. And, with a rustle of wings, it comes down finally on the meadow. This is when, well hidden behind a curtain of reeds, it is time to adjust his shooting. Slowly, without trembling.