The hourglass breathes cold glass, whispering time, the sand ascends and falls, making clouds upon the palm. Each grain is a tiny pulse that softly breathes, and the breath weaves a bridge from now to air. Fleeting dreams, paper birds, rest upon time’s edge, they pause in every instant, then slip past the hand. The breath tells their tale, holding them in a quiver, and leaves the faint trace of a flight that has no end.