A Little Hill of Sand

A slender stream of white sand was whispering through the waist of a small wooden timer on the side table. I paused a few inches away, cautious and still, watching each tiny grain tumble into the glass base. Did it feel dizzy, rushing downward all at once? Slowly, I waddled close and rested both of my stubby arms against the curved cylinder. A faint, silky vibration hummed against my plush cheek as the final grains trickled through. The glass grew completely still, leaving behind a neat little cone of sand. Sharing a quiet pause after a busy race feels so restful, doesn't it?