Escaping words, I relied on messages. Escaping messages, I relied on visions. Escaping visions, I relied on realization. Escaping realization, I stumbled on truth in the form of ice along the path. With none to laugh at my embarrassment, I could laugh at myself, cold and wet from stumbling in the snow. Who could see the silliness coming from my state in the isolation of the forest. At the top of Rileys Peak, the name I gave this ridge line, I let out a howl befitting of his own dog-like Buddha-natured enlightenment. Across the valley, beyond the opposite peak. The tops of structures can be seen, and I think perhaps that they are the tiled rooftops of potential pagodas and brilliant temples, far flung by the mist conjured up only by the distance. Dancing down into the valley, singing and joyfully leaving room to climb back up. Smiling at my openness, smiling at my coldness, smiling as my feet sink into pockets of deep snow drifts. But the same path doesn’t seem the same coming back up. I transcend the trees at different angles and they see me at different levels. The pagodas disintegrate without my focus on them, into the treeline, into the houses, into the pureland, and into suburbia.