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.