The Turning Glass

The hourglass sat spent on the side table, all its sand gathered in the base. I squared my stance. Extending both gloves, I gripped the round wooden frame. It carried solid weight between three polished brass rods. With a deliberate, steady turn, I flipped the cylinder upright. The grains broke loose instantly, dropping in a thin white stream through the narrow glass neck. I stepped back, planted my feet firmly on the timber, and crossed my arms. One breath for every ten grains. No rush. No wasted motion. The morning begins with measured time.