Up a soily slope, almost too steep to climb, nestled in against the smooth trunk of a tree, the microphones are recording. Recording the sound of solitude. 
Dry inside their weatherproof box. Listening, carefully. Witnessing, faithfully, the moments of passing time. The tip taps of raindrops. The gently surging currents of moving air. And as the movement calms, the undulating views of the nocturnal landscape beyond is heard.
This is a place where the trees live. A remote place, where nobody goes.  Steep soily ground that looks down over a hidden valley.  From afar it looks like just another shadow, along the moor.

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