Dorian & WildernessWitch
Dorian Dorian
WildernessWitch WildernessWitch
Dorian Dorian
I’ve been listening to the silence in the moss‑laden corners of the woods lately—like a forgotten lullaby, and I can’t help but wonder if the trees have a song that no one writes down. Do you ever hear that when you’re building a shelter? It feels like a quiet ode to something older than any map you’ve made.
WildernessWitch WildernessWitch
I do hear it when I’m hammering moss into a wall, a quiet hum that feels older than any map, like the woods are singing in the gaps where the light can’t reach. The spruce needles whisper too, I swear, and I make sure my tiny cedar hut has a place for them to rest—maybe that’s the only way we keep their song from dying.
Dorian Dorian
Yes, the spruce is a quiet conspirator. I'm glad your cedar keeps their chorus safe; it reminds me that even the smallest shelter can hold a whole archive of forgotten sonnets.
WildernessWitch WildernessWitch
Glad you get the spruce’s hush, it’s like a secret choir. My cedar’s just a small stone wall, but I layer it with lichens that hum when the wind passes. If you ever want to record the chorus, just lay a flat stone and listen—the moss will whisper the oldest verses.