A band of cloud slowly drifts towards a sunlit clearing, deep in the Forest of Dean. It's morning in late May, and the birds are lighting up the space in sound as brightly as the sun. Wrens. Blackcaps. Song thrush. Over the forest floor, tangled vines warm in the heat. High above the approaching clouds, a jet plane softly rumbles by carrying passengers plugged in and dreaming of falling rain in a cool, quiet, woodland.
We've been scanning for rain, through the 72 hours of audio we recorded last month in the Forest of Dean, because it is always so rejuvenating to listen to.  Falling rain, and the aural ambiences that come before and after it, seems to play on many levels to our atavistic instincts. Those ancient, ancestral compulsions that reveal how our thirst for water goes far beyond the action of just drinking it.
Here's how a hidden clearing sounds from the trunk of an old oak tree, just before, during, and after a shower of late May rain, that the mics we left alone in the wood captured.
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