This long lake valley opening between Lausanne and Geneva is not un pays de loups (wolves' country). So much is staked, regularized, protected, mown. If I were a wolf here, I would have to hide in the scrubby strips along the tracks all ay, and hope for the best at night, among espaliered apples and the tall graceful shade trees over absolutely flat lawns. I would have to have a fine nose to find other wild creatures to befriend, or to eat.
It does not behoove a wolf to eat food grown in rows, and I am not so sure it behooves us, either. Row-food, row-phones, row-houses. The soul grows small, and forgets to visit swans' nests at night, under the crescent moon, rattling underground with leaves like tiny bones, to reach the dark waters' edge. The soul grows small, and once small, agrees that this is a dangerous, expensive world, rather than a wondrous, abundant one.