“You’re really going to call the police on families having lunch?”
“I already did.”
The crowd went quiet.
Karen’s face hardened.
“You did what?”
“You’re trespassing.”
A woman began packing a bag.
Karen turned toward everyone.
“Nobody panic. This is a misunderstanding.”
“No.”
I lifted my phone.
“It stopped being a misunderstanding when I formally told you no.”
Karen walked closer.
“You want to humiliate me.”
“I want you off my farm.”
“Same thing to you.”
“No.”
I pointed toward the bulls.
“You’re creating a dangerous situation.”
“They’re fenced.”
“For now.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means livestock and crowds don’t mix.”
“Oh, please.”
A balloon popped behind us.
Three bulls lifted their heads.
One stepped sideways.
Karen turned.
Then laughed.
“See? Nothing.”
I felt something cold move through me.
Not revenge.
Not exactly.
Exhaustion.
She was incapable of understanding anything that did not immediately punish her.
I walked to the gate separating that pasture section from the adjacent lane.
The people watched me.
Karen raised the megaphone.
“What are you doing now?”
“Farm work.”
“You’re doing this intentionally.”
“Doing what?”
“Trying to scare us.”
I turned.
“Karen, I asked you to leave.”
“We’re not leaving.”
“Then you are responsible for remaining on active livestock property after being warned.”
She stared.
I opened a routine access gate.
Not toward the crowd.
Into the connected grazing lane the bulls regularly used.
Several bulls noticed movement.
Heads came up.
The crowd changed instantly.
Conversation died.
Karen lowered the megaphone.
“Cole.”
“Yes?”
“What are you doing?”
“Moving cattle.”
“Now?”
“It’s a farm.”
One bull began walking toward the open lane.
Then another.
Slow.
Curious.
The ground did not shake.
Not yet.
But thirty five bulls moving together have a sound people feel before they understand it.
