If you fly down (or is that up) towards the floor of the Great Valley, you will see that its blank surface is actually canopy of an enormous forest. The night air is clean, and the wake of your flight over the leaves gives off a small glow that makes everything visible to your well-tuned negative-seeing eyes. You can hear the calls of individual trees, calling out to their scattered relatives and parents, and the creak of the trunks that try to turn this way and that, straining to understand the messages that are being passed to them through the earth, through their roots. Each trees feels the missing others as phantom limbs, roots and leaves that should be there, and which at times act as if they actually are connected, though in truth they are far away, and in some cases were logged and sawn 30 years ago.