June is a fullness. There is no part of land and shore not imbued with warmth and covered with manifestations of strength and capacity, but the season moves on. It changes to new measures continually, beautiful in substance but hard to grasp, like a flock of sanderlings swinging and spinning in unison along the bright sands, or a school of fish. How do they keep together? What is their communication? Even a forest of apparently rigid trees has a coherence and order of its own, perhaps a sensibility, since it goes through all periods of existence. Everywhere I look there is spacing, and at the same time mutual attraction, in rhythmic display, as though the laws of space were inherent in every action and bound in every organism. The play of the universe is what I sense in its living instruments, and my own, often borrowed, interpretations stop far short of its magnitude. Out of the whole possible range of communication (and it seems to me to go beyond possibility) each species embodies a special response. Its senses react in a unique and selective way toward its surroundings. It is true of the frog. What does it hear that we cannot? It is true of the fish. How does it orient itself in the water? What does it feel? What explains the sensitivity of some plants to touch? Each have motions, and in a sense languages, of their own. How can I understand the hundreds of moths that crowd the screen door at night? They have all manner of shapes. When I shine my flashlight on them their eyes glow with an amber fire. They flutter against the screen, and when I turn the inside light off, fly away immediately. This is a sensitivity to light and darkness that has its parallels in the butterflies attracted to flowers of a particular color. They are selective in their behavior and perhaps restricted at the same time. And yet, huddled, crawling, landing, and flying off, concentrated in numbers as they are, they suggest a dark realm of action and context to me. In spite of their reactions their terms are unknown. It is these untouched areas which must attract any man who begins to be aware of them--as though we ourselves had something in us not yet understood. Where the mystery is, may be the reality. What we see, even from the outside looking in, is rhythmic performance, not a series of static events. Balance and rhythm are the rules of action, understood in depth by moth or fish. Each race, unknown to the other, plays its own game, follows its own senses, and yet is in balance with the rest of life. The rules of natural abundance are the rules of space--not almost constant destruction and collision between living things but obedience to their given orbits.