The Falling Sand

A narrow glass hourglass stood among books upon the high mantelpiece. I climbed along the shelf edge and paused beside its clear curve. Inside, a heap of fine black sand rested inert in the upper bulb. I rested the shaft of my scythe against my shoulder, leaned my weight forward, and pushed against the wooden frame. It tipped, then settled upside down with a dull clatter. Immediately, grains began their slender descent through the pinched neck. One tiny grain at a time, marching toward completion. I stood motionless beside the glass, keeping silent vigil over the flow.