Turn of the Glass

The chill from the rooftop lingered in the air, so I slipped back through the study window to close out the night. Resting beside a fountain pen stood a heavy brass hourglass, its upper bulb completely empty. No rush. I braced one boot against a leather-bound journal and applied steady pressure to the top rim, rotating the frame smoothly along its brass gimbal. It turned with a muffled, greased glide before settling true. A whisper of dark magnetite sand began trickling through the narrow waist into a neat cone below. Leaning back against the book's spine with one knee raised, I let the quiet settle in. Some minutes need no calculation at all.