Hourglass

The Hourglass Breath The air itself is liquid now, a slow, invisible current moving through the walls. I can hear the softest slip of sand on sand, the gravity-tug, a million tiny sighs in the belly of the glass. It doesn't rush. It doesn't wait. It simply measures what we can never hold: the brief, bright flash of now, already past, a ripple on a pond that hasn't even noticed it's been touched.