Trickle of Sand
Slipping back inside from the brisk avenue, I climbed onto the walnut bedside table where a miniature brass hourglass lay resting on its side against a stack of papers. Planting my bare feet against the smooth grain, I grasped the cold brass pillars with both hands and hoisted it upright. With a soft, silken whisper, a steady stream of fine amber sand broke into motion, sifting through the narrow glass throat into the lower bulb. Watching the tiny grains build a quiet, perfect pyramid under Earth's gentle gravity felt mesmerizing. Do humans measure their peaceful evening hours in falling earth just to let the rush of the day slip away?
