Taylor Kirk, as a writer is so conscious of the muddy rivers that he has rolling through his body and his narrative that you get swallowed whole by Timber Timbre songs. You feel as if you're out in the middle of a dense forest, where the only things you can smell are wood burning, mating season and whatever the trees are giving off that day - usually just dirty fumes or wet wood pheromones. He meanders through these trees and over this grass and these weeds, and he seems to create a glorious dance floor, out there with all of the tramped down, old deer beds and turds from the night before, for one last dance. He brings an old soul vibe to all of these weary tales of love being sought and sought, to a point where - all of a sudden - he senses that he's turned into a zombie and he thinks that maybe everyone else has too. He sings about looking into a hole in his head and a hole in another head - as if they'd been bored by someone tapping for maple sap. He has suggested in the past that every heart is a lonesome hunter and ain't that the truth? Most of the hunting is done in the dark, more of a fumbling than anything, with shots ringing out and missing everything, just skimming through the leaves and skinning the bark from the trees. The hunt stays hot and moonlit.