Winding paths meander up and down the hillsides, in and out of shade and mist, the variety of views as remarkable as the range of sounds and silences. How to grasp the vast newness, as I wander the slopes overlooking the gleaming mirror of the Pacific? Naming should orient me. But adrift in the far West equipped with only the words of other continents, I am bereft.  Relieved that by nature, forgetting comes easily to me. As always, death waits on the edges, coiled and drowsy, or padding through the soft dust, impervious to my domesticating designs. Unknown, unknowing, unknowable beauty is dangerous territory. Remember your sturdy boots, your walking stick.