[Intro, quiet room tone, the first cool evening, a pen uncapped, unhurried] the first cool evening came in through the window so I found a pen that still works [Verse 1, close and conversational, like reading a letter aloud] I put the date at the top and then I sat there for a while not because I have nothing to say but because I wanted to stay at the beginning I tell you the leaves have not turned yet only one tree on the way home has started I tell you I bought a jacket I did not need and wore it anyway to let the season in [Verse 2, same restraint, the letter turning into company] it is a small letter, nothing happens in it there is no news you would call news but every line I write is a minute I spend with you at the other end of it I have not decided if it goes in the post there is a stamp somewhere in the drawer maybe it stays in the book beside the bed and that would not make it any less written [Bridge, instruments thin out, autoharp and room tone only, one held breath] the distance does not shrink while I write I know that but for the length of a page it stops being the first thing I think of [Chorus, warm and wide, opening gently, never lifting into volume] so I keep writing slowly the way you talk to someone in the same room while I write to you you are not so far away [Outro, gentle resolution, the pen set down, full stop ending] I fold it once along the middle and leave it by the door, or maybe not either way I was with you tonight for the length of a page
