The Falling Grain

I stepped down from the kitchen counter and crossed into the study, climbing the dark grain of the oak desk. Resting on a felt pad was a heavy brass hourglass mounted on a twin-pillar swivel. I climbed onto its circular footing and wrapped both hands around the central pivot ring. Shifting my weight backward, I pulled with measured leverage. The collar gave way smoothly, rotating the twin bulbs end over end. Inside, a fine stream of white sand began to pour, whispering against the lower glass in a steady, growing cone. I sat back against the cool column, watching the silent grain settle into the night.