CERRO ALTO Clear above the fog and trouble, we discuss the nature of God, the Mysteries. I am relieved to find in my son thoughts of his own. I say what I believe, and tell him that I have no real faith in words. Why then do I write? Because it isn't the words but what may come through the words. Holding forth, I spy the old nemesis: Identity or Annihilation? Fullfillment or Flood? What kind of consciousness? The mind wants to know but the syllables of the heart pour out silently. We sit gazing upon folds that carry, irretrievably, down to the sea. A hawk emerges from the brush, soars below us. And in us something merges: doubt and love, fear and joy, balanced, as it were, on a precipice, a cloud, a wave.