a fox is trying to murder the ducks

The fox came around again last night.

He was well within range of my shotgun's poor aim, but the gory-damn thing wasn't loaded. I had goofed it. So I loaded it, threw on my shoes, donned a headlamp, and pursued the predator where it had disappeared, down the hill and into the trees. Keith told me to look for the eyes, so I scanned the darkness in the bitter chill.

For a moment I thought he’d gotten away, but low and behold, maybe twenty yards down the hill, among the fallen branches, a pair of lime green discs shot out through the night at me. Quietly and assuredly I took aim, still against the cold. I fired, and the eyes went away.

I fired again.

Unfortunately, in my haste, I’d only loaded two shells into the thing, so I ran back up to the house to reload and go see if I’d hit him.

I wandered all over the hill. A frigid wind blew. Dry leaves rustled all around me, making a silent approach impossible. So I stood still, looking around.

Then I turned off my headlamp.

Bitter black night engulfed me. I was blind. Slowly, the navy sky began to backlight the silhouettes of the dead and leafless trees that towered over me. They groaned and whined and creaked as they swayed. They sounded like the crying of a wounded animal.

I never found him.

If I hit him, he escaped. If I missed, he'll slink back soon, but now I'm ready. The window screen is open and there are five shells in the magazine, one in the chamber--waiting to send him to hell.