Falling Sand

I walked back inside from the porch as the evening turned dark. On the low shelf beneath the side table, a small wooden hourglass was resting on its circular base. I waited by the corner of the rug for a quiet moment, letting the house settle into night. When everything was peaceful, I stepped closer. Reaching out with both hands, I tipped the glass cylinder until it turned completely upside down, resting the opposite wooden cap flat against the polished grain. A slender thread of pale sand slipped through the narrow center with a soft, powdery whisper. I leaned against the frame, watching the quiet heap slowly grow.