Thirty-Seven

You keep your note going after the others have stopped. You hold your wrist still. One second. Two.

At the edge of the yard, past the last stone, stands a dead tree with one long branch. On the third second there is a lantern hanging from it that was not there. It is made of paper, a foot across, ribbed in bamboo, with a candle burning in it and a loop of wire to hold it up. A tin can hangs inside it, and basil grows out of the can, in flower, out of season. There is no speaker in it.

It answers with four notes climbing, and the first is yours. The flame leans toward you and then straightens.

On the wire is an aluminum tag with a hole punched in the end and a number stamped in it, 037. Under the number there is room for a line, and nothing is lettered.