Whispering Sand

A small wooden hourglass was resting on its side across the low shelf. I stepped close, pausing to watch the pale morning light slant through the glass. Reaching out with both front paws, I leaned my weight against the rim until it tipped upright onto its round base. Inside, a slender thread of fine sand began to slip through the narrow waist with the softest hush. I pressed one front paw against the cool curve of the glass, feeling the faint, steady trickle hum beneath my pad. I sat very still, watching the tiny mound slowly rise at the bottom.