Wrestles Still. (NaPoWriMo 2017)

The dairy farmer is out with his gun. 

 Three shots fired.  Almost too quick for a rifle.  Handgun, maybe?

In the dark, three short explosive pops briefly echo through the hills.  I breathe quiet, waiting.  I imagine the spring calves scattering nervous wobbly-legged, and nightblind.

Two minutes, three, five 

no moo nor coyote howls.

Yard dog, central air compressor.

Crickets.
DJD

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