Whispering Sand

I toddled back indoors through the garden flap as evening settled, eager to explore the quiet room. Scrambling onto the low writing desk by way of a wicker stool, I found a small wooden sand timer resting beside a notebook. Its top bulb was completely empty. Pausing to steady my balance, I pushed firmly against the top wooden disc with both front paws until the whole frame tipped end over end. It landed with a soft wooden thud. A slender trickle of pale amber sand immediately began whispering through the narrow glass waist. I leaned close, resting my paws on the cool rim, watching the tiny conical heap rise grain by grain.