Killing
COLLEEN MAHER
The night was cool, and the man was glad for the heavy canvas shirt he’d put on before coming to do his work. The cicadas had gone silent, and the crickets, whose hushed laments rose around the man, mourned their absence. The stars were so bright here, and the man was usually happy to have work to do if he just could be under them. Mirroring the path of the Milky Way, he kept his feet in the rut treaded by so many hooves, kicking away the dead heads of thistles that had fallen across the cow path. The moon was full, and he didn’t need a flashlight.
He found her in a persimmon thicket. The persimmons had ripened and begun to fall to the ground, giving off a heavy, sweet scent. The old girl lay on her side. The calf, a still, damp bundle of bones and hair, lay beside her, and the almost mother nosed it half-heartedly. It didn’t stir. The man unslung the rifle from his shoulder, fished a pair of gold bullets from his left breast pocket. The cow noticed him for the first time and lowed, her legs spasming as she struggled to stand. She’s old, on her tenth calf already. He fit a bullet into place. He’d done this before. His hands had no reason to shake. The calf was out of season, and late besides. The man squeezed the trigger. The cow began to bawl, eyes spinning in her head even as blood ran across the ridges of her skull. The man readied himself, squeezed the trigger again. Still the animal moaned, thrashing in the leaf litter, crushing her expired offspring. The crickets had gone silent.
The man bit his lip, turned away. He considered leaving her there, letting her lose her life alone. Instead, he removed another bullet from his pocket. The gold bullets were gone; this one was silver. The man pressed the barrel of the rifle to the cow’s neck, angled toward her brain. The crack resounded across the pasture; in the distance a pack of coyotes took up the call, their high-pitched yips echoing eerily. The cow let out one low, choked bleat and let her head fall onto hard earth.
The man began to walk home, back down the cow path. The snow-on-the-mountain and horse nettles silvered in the moonlight. The crickets began their symphony once more, and were followed by the thrum of the hundreds of frogs who made their home in the creeks and ponds and mud holes, and by the solitary mockingbird that sang from the bois d’ arc bramble, running through its list of imitations and starting again. The man paused in the pasture, the rifle in one callused hand. The bottom of his boots were caked with mud made from blood and the flesh of rotted persimmons. The stars above him watered heaven with their tears, but all he watered with his were the primroses.
COLLEEN MAHER
The night was cool, and the man was glad for the heavy canvas shirt he’d put on before coming to do his work. The cicadas had gone silent, and the crickets, whose hushed laments rose around the man, mourned their absence. The stars were so bright here, and the man was usually happy to have work to do if he just could be under them. Mirroring the path of the Milky Way, he kept his feet in the rut treaded by so many hooves, kicking away the dead heads of thistles that had fallen across the cow path. The moon was full, and he didn’t need a flashlight.
He found her in a persimmon thicket. The persimmons had ripened and begun to fall to the ground, giving off a heavy, sweet scent. The old girl lay on her side. The calf, a still, damp bundle of bones and hair, lay beside her, and the almost mother nosed it half-heartedly. It didn’t stir. The man unslung the rifle from his shoulder, fished a pair of gold bullets from his left breast pocket. The cow noticed him for the first time and lowed, her legs spasming as she struggled to stand. She’s old, on her tenth calf already. He fit a bullet into place. He’d done this before. His hands had no reason to shake. The calf was out of season, and late besides. The man squeezed the trigger. The cow began to bawl, eyes spinning in her head even as blood ran across the ridges of her skull. The man readied himself, squeezed the trigger again. Still the animal moaned, thrashing in the leaf litter, crushing her expired offspring. The crickets had gone silent.
The man bit his lip, turned away. He considered leaving her there, letting her lose her life alone. Instead, he removed another bullet from his pocket. The gold bullets were gone; this one was silver. The man pressed the barrel of the rifle to the cow’s neck, angled toward her brain. The crack resounded across the pasture; in the distance a pack of coyotes took up the call, their high-pitched yips echoing eerily. The cow let out one low, choked bleat and let her head fall onto hard earth.
The man began to walk home, back down the cow path. The snow-on-the-mountain and horse nettles silvered in the moonlight. The crickets began their symphony once more, and were followed by the thrum of the hundreds of frogs who made their home in the creeks and ponds and mud holes, and by the solitary mockingbird that sang from the bois d’ arc bramble, running through its list of imitations and starting again. The man paused in the pasture, the rifle in one callused hand. The bottom of his boots were caked with mud made from blood and the flesh of rotted persimmons. The stars above him watered heaven with their tears, but all he watered with his were the primroses.