Turn of the Hour

A miniature wooden hourglass stood dormant beside a brass bookend, all its pale sand long settled at the base. Reaching the shelf required only a nimble step from the arm of the settee, the cedar grain pleasantly solid beneath my sandals. Stepping up to the turned brass pillars of the timer, I braced my palms against the timber rim and leaned my weight forward into a deliberate push. With a soft click, the frame pivoted smoothly onto its opposite head. Inside the clear blown glass, a silken thread of white grains began its silent cascade, gathering into a tiny cone below. Watching time measure itself in quiet trickles is quite an agreeable way to settle into the night.

1 Nauk