Inktober Second. Tranquil.

Look down into the mountain town, Whistle Wood, whose every street is empty tonight in the season of the missing boy. See the stucco motel parking and its glass puddles reflecting the downcast gaze of a watcher. See the old mill’s plastic smokestacks billow cotton clouds. See the main street lined in lamps like Christmas. And see Hannah: who wanders after curfew, out in the mountain pass. Here is the unfinished corner store where she saw the missing boy. See Hannah’s small boots, and her hair shine and a careful smile rendered a little at a time. And the painter brushing her yellow rain slicker delicately — the color of tulips in the sun. -FM