Claire looked toward the horizon.
“I hope so.”
Day three began hot.
The storm clouds that had appeared overnight dissolved by sunrise.
Texas heat returned with brutal speed.
Claire arrived at the quarantine pasture shortly after six.
The bull stood near water.
Still weak.
Still alive.
Mateo approached.
“We need another decision today.”
Claire nodded.
“I know.”
“If bird control was part of the plan…”
“It was part.”
“Not all.”
“I know.”
Mateo softened.
“I’m not trying to argue.”
“I know.”
She looked toward the bull.
“I may have remembered something that doesn’t work anymore.”
Mateo followed her gaze.
“Your grandfather’s caracaras?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe there aren’t enough.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe the ranch changed.”
Claire looked around.
The brush lines were thinner than when she was a child.
Neighboring properties had cleared thousands of acres.
Utility poles replaced some tall trees.
Road traffic increased.
Insects changed.
Bird populations shifted.
Memory was not data.
Her grandfather’s wisdom mattered.
But copying the past blindly would violate the very lesson he had taught her.
Observe.
Adjust.
Claire sighed.
“We continue the vet plan.”
Mateo nodded.
“No waiting beyond what’s medically responsible.”
“Good.”
A shadow crossed the dirt.
Neither noticed at first.
Then another.
Mateo looked up.
A crested caracara circled above the pasture.
Claire froze.
The bird turned once.
Wide wings.
Dark cap.
Pale neck.
It circled again.
Mateo whispered:
“You have got to be kidding.”
Claire said nothing.
The caracara descended toward a fence post.
Landed.
Watched.
The bull raised his head.
Another bird appeared.
Then a third.
One settled beneath a mesquite.
Mateo stepped closer to Claire.
“Is this normal?”
“For them?”
“Yes.”
“For my nerves?”
“No.”
The first bird dropped from the post.
It walked across the dirt with the strange confidence of a creature that looked half eagle, half outlaw.
Closer.
The bull flicked his ear.
The bird stopped.
Then hopped forward.
The bull did not retreat.
Claire barely breathed.
The caracara spread its wings.
Lifted.
Landed on the bull’s back.
Mateo whispered:
“Lord.”
The bird balanced.
The bull’s skin twitched.
Then the sharp beak moved.
One tick disappeared.
Then another.
Then another.
Claire smiled.
Not triumph.
Relief.
A second bird landed.
Then the third.
Mateo looked upward.
His face changed.
“Claire.”
She followed his gaze.
The sky was no longer empty.
Dark shapes circled above the pasture.
Ten.
Then fifteen.
More appeared beyond the mesquite.
Caracaras.
Some landed on fence posts.
Others dropped into the grass.
Several moved toward the bull.
Their shadows crossed the ground until the dusty pasture seemed to flicker beneath them.
Mateo laughed once in disbelief.
“The sky’s turning black.”
Claire felt tears sting her eyes.
Her grandfather’s voice returned from decades earlier.
Watch the sky before you reach for the bottle.