There is no noise, just the slow beating of the drone's blades and the breathing of the thin air. You fly over lands that seem to no longer belong to any season. Winter retreats gracefully, like a guest who has decided to leave quietly, leaving a torn blanket of snow on the ground. Dark veins emerge between the white cracks, strips of bare earth, memories of roads, fences, curves, disordered geometries that tell of lives beneath the surface. It is as if the world was slowly awakening from a dream, but remained for a moment longer with its eyes closed, savoring the final quiet. From above, nothing is taken for granted: what is real becomes abstract, what is cold pulsates with restrained life. Each shot captures that precise moment in which the form melts and recomposes, fragile, changing, sublime. You don't know if you're looking at fields or paintings. You don't know if those cracks in the white are wounds or openings. You just know that you feel suspended — between seasons, between meanings, between earth and sky.