What the crows know, you clearly don't

You can hear the humming through the trees calling for you. It starts as a low vibration, barely audible above the constant drizzle that seeps into your bones. The moss-covered cedars lean a little too close, their branches trembling with the rhythm of something unseen, something waiting. Fog clings to the forest floor like it knows your name, curling around your ankles when you try to leave. The sound—it isn’t mechanical, not wind, not wildlife. It’s older. It pulses like breath, echoing through the damp and hollow places.
Above it all, the crows scream. They never stop. Perched high in the bare pines, black shapes against a colorless sky, they call and call, hoarse voices cracking with urgency. It’s not a song—it’s a warning.
Your grandmother used to say the woods hum when they're hungry. You thought it was folklore.
Now, you don’t.
The crows watch as you step off the trail. The humming grows louder. The trees make room. And still, you walk deeper. As if you were just always meant to.

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This atmosphere sound has been released under the
Creative Commons Sampling Plus 1.0 License.