Morning Sand

I walked over to the low wooden bookshelf by the window to catch the morning light. Resting next to a stack of thick sketchbooks was a small hourglass framed in brushed brass, its dark sand settled completely at the base. I stepped up close, planted my boots firm, and gripped the brass rim with both hands. Hauled it upright, flipped it clean over, and set it flat against the oak shelf. It landed with a solid little clink. Right away, a fine gray thread of sand began hissing through the narrow glass neck, building a steady cone below. Leaned back against the book spine and just watched the grains drop.