At first glance, this second record by The Weather Station is a humble thing, gentle and warm. The elements are simple, finger-picked acoustic guitars and three part harmonies, an unexpected snare drum, a stray electric guitar. Tamara Lindeman's lyrics stay close to home, detailing a creaking house in disrepair, a quiet side street, a seemingly idyllic summer; but also the heartache that comes in slyly, inexorably, as it always does, softly, like the moths that attack the flour.

It's beautiful, certainly, unabashedly so, but unsettled, all creeping nature, dirt and sweetness, accusation and acceptance. Short, small in scope, and curiously complete. Ten songs doing nothing more than speaking for themselves, quietly perhaps, but with grace, not one word out of place.