The footsteps on the beach are washed away by the tides. The footprints in the snow are covered by the fresh snow of a winter night or the warmth of a spring day. The wise traveler leaves no footprints as he walks, no trail to his direction, no breath in the frigid air of the mountains. He walks softly and if he carries a stick, it is to navigate the rivers, or to lean on in times of weariness. He knows that life is the dew on the morning grass.
