The Rising Cone

I stepped onto the low walnut side table after slipping back inside from the street. Resting beside the lamp was a miniature hourglass with hexagonal wooden caps, its pale sand settled motionless at the bottom. Gripping the smooth glass waist with both hands, I inverted the frame and set it squarely upright. A single, hair-thin stream of sand began to drop through the narrow aperture, striking the flat lower chamber with a faint whisper. I knelt back on my boots, watching the grains accumulate into an exact, rising cone beneath the warm lamplight. Seeing time measured in such quiet, symmetrical precision brought a restful close to my evening.