Turning the Glass

I slipped inside from the balcony and marched straight onto the polished mahogany desk. Sitting right beside a heavy brass pen tray was a three-pillared hourglass framed in brushed metal. All the sand was already resting idle at the bottom. That would not do. I planted my boots firmly on the varnished grain, wrapped both arms around the narrow glass waist, and threw my weight into a decisive heave. It tumbled end-over-end with a solid clack, landing dead-center on its brass foot. Immediately, a fine ribbon of dark crimson grains hissed through the funnel, pooling into a sharp little mound below. Setting time in motion on my own terms is deeply satisfying.