The sky is pale, immoderate; the sand banks, pale, scarcely gilded by a pale sun. The sea has withdrawn, leaving behind it one narrow pale green-channel; it is on this perilous path a path fishing boat ventures, its green hull merging with its green sails like two fine wings. I see it advance and I imagine its inevitable fall. This narrow green brook will not lead it to port. The port is dry.
The north wind swells its thin sails; she approaches so slowly she seems not to move. The last ray of the setting sun lights me. I distinguish a cord, part of a net on this pale table: the boat is anchored in the middle of the channel.

The child's immoderate skin is pale; his hair short and light, pale, hardly gilded by a pale sun. He sits and holds between his tight fingers a pale blade of grass; and it is from this leaf a grasshopper has taken flight to a nearby field. Very pale, its green body merges with its green wings which quiver like light sheets. I see it advance and imagine its inevitable fall. This narrow green path does not lead to freedom. The child would trap the grasshopper. Where does she want to go? The breeze agitates its thin wings; she approaches so slowly that to tell the truth she seems not to move. The last ray of the setting sun illuminates me. I distinguish a wire from silk, the only feature of a net on this pale table: the nimble grasshopper is attached by the leg to the middle of the field.