Listening to Old Records

When I listen to a time before stereo
With the room closed and quiet
There is a smallness in the sound
A pale wavering
Like someone in their last years confined to a bed
But I only open the screen door
And that same struggling music melds with the wind
Rising into the waving trees the scatter of sparrows
The surprise of an ambulance
Growing into the present tense
Of everything
Becoming what it was
When the ones who played it were alive
When they were trying to find a way
To make the music live again

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