The music released with a slow gravity

against the weight of a dusky room.

The record player, a wooden box with

antique charm, scratched out a song

of weeping blues as the needle traveled

the grooves, circling, advancing, calling

for hands to clap and feet to walk lightly.

The music penetrated the gray of

morning shadows, working the air, pushing

aside false claims, opening a fresh

start, releasing a new day.



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