Our high path is between great trees. They bend a little in the breeze. The air and the leaves teach each other to talk and we cannot say whose voice is whose — whether it is the leaves that speak or the air. The leaf-strewn path is wonderfully dry on this sunny, late September day. From time to time, the trees part and we enjoy a prospect of rolling hills, small fields, farmhouses, copses and hedges and even a little road whose traffic is sufficiently infrequent and sufficiently remote not to obtrude upon your meditations and alter your mode of attunement to the world for the worse. In this wide space, I want to talk again about space itself.