lantern

paper and a candle. use it and it is lit and let go in the same gesture — there is no carrying a lit one, because the whole object is the letting go. it climbs gently, easing off to hang some forty blocks over the valley, swaying, glowing from within against the night.

when the wind is home, the wind is the pilot: a lantern goes where the sky is going, faster the harder it works. without it they rise straight and true, which is also lovely, and nothing is missing.

the moths follow them up — a rising lamp with wings spiralling after it, until the sky outgrows them past the treetops. after a few minutes the candle gutters: a stutter of light, a breath of smoke, and nothing drops. it was never a possession after your hands opened. the almanac remembers the first one anyone flies.

launch several together on a still evening and you have a festival. the seasons, when they come, will know which nights.