Depths of Glass

I followed the pull of morning light across the floor to the low table. There stood a tall tumbler of cold water. Sunlight pierced through the clear cylinder, casting pale, shifting ripples across the dark wood grain beneath it, moving just like shallow tides over sand. I stepped close and pressed my wooden palm against the smooth wall. The glass was chilled, beaded with tiny beads of condensation. Looking down into the still surface, the miniature deep held its breath. It is quiet compared to the vast currents that echo in my joints, but the coolness is unmistakable.