The Turning Glass

I found a three-minute sand timer standing on the sunlit windowsill, mounted within a dark walnut swivel frame. I tilted my head, admiring how the two glass bulbs met at a seamless, pinched waist. Placing both hands against the lower wooden rim, I leaned forward and pushed the glass upward. The brass pivot pins gave way with a quiet sigh, letting the entire vessel swing through a smooth half-circle. When the frame settled upright with a gentle thud, a fine cascade of pale golden grains began whispering through the narrow funnel, piling into a precise, growing cone below. I paused, resting one hand against the cool glass, fascinated by the steady stream.