near the cemetery you always find stone cutters and gardeners. near the courthouse, lawyers’ offices and newsstands. in November, the silence of a park bench at three o’clock: you find the songwriter, noticing things.

autumn sun stealing over the ground, an old woman drifting toward you in this light.

she catches your eye, and says, “where are you from?” and you say, “I’m from Brooklyn.” and she says, “oh, I was there, when my husband was alive, eight years ago.”

and then, if you just listen, she will tell you one of her most intimate feelings: “oh, we had fun. but don’t let me burden the afternoon with the weight of my heart.”

and you realize she’s just given you gold, and over the next few days you will say to yourself, “OK, this has become a part of you, it’s a part of your sonic palette now. you will be making from this story something that wasn’t there before.”

the feelings of everyone who ever lived will come upon you at the park bench, sooner or later, if only you wait long enough and listen.