Dust motes in the garage light

Dust motes in the garage light,

settling on the cardboard sleeves.

Dad's 'Rumours,' cracked and bent, not right,

like fallen, dry October leaves.

I pulled it out, a careful hand,

the record dull, a muted black.

Put it on, across the land

of silent years, there was no track

until the needle, slow and deep,

dropped to the groove, a quiet hiss.

A promise that the sounds would keep,

a certain, long-forgotten bliss.

The crackle before Fleetwood Mac,

a static sigh, a warm old tone.

No turning quickly, turning back,

just sounds from where the years have flown.