Trickling Sand

A small wooden-framed sand timer stood on the bottom shelf of the side table, its upper bulb half-filled with pale crimson grains. I halted on the floorboards, measuring the clearance. Three deliberate strides brought my front claws onto the smooth pine ledge. I waited. The room was motionless. Leaning forward, I pressed the blunt curve of my snout against the upper wooden disc. The timer tipped, rolled across the seam, and came to rest upright on its opposite base with a dull wooden thud. A whisper-thin ribbon of sand immediately began descending through the narrow glass neck. I flattened my chest against the shelf, watching each grain settle into the growing mound below.