Strategic ignorance of cognitive dissonance.

       On the sat view of his area, little white dots scattered out at almost even intervals, the seeds of an afternoon thunderstorm.  Humidity and heat push it's way upward into the cool heights so fast that it seemed as if he was watching a time lapse of the event, the breeze died and the Kestrel had to flap its wings to keep it's position, giving lucky a little jolt.  "Strange, how long has that bird been there?" the bird hovered - it's body moving - and head staying still, keeping an eye on Lucky...  The bird gave up, soared down  just across the top of the corn field going out of sight, in search of elevation somewhere out on that flat treeless landscape, he stared on as if he could still see it.  The cloud was still growing at a rapid pace, the breeze was dead, temperature: one hundred five, the overlay magically over each hog showing is approximate position in the field, lucky took a swig out of his beat up plastic water bottle, the shiny thermos glaring in the sun, sealed his bag of chips.  lucky relaxed and systematically crept his view outward to the peripheral, all the sound, movement, heat, humidity, odors, and sub-aural vibrations occurring in real-time; no past, no future, no plan for the next moment, no longing for the past, every sense was engaged in the flow, filling up his briefly empty mind with the minutia of now.    

Oxygen source has bad breath.

Accessing the latest map required a confounded intricately complicated encrypted pass code.  Lucky sat under the shadow of the rig, sharing his immediate space with a circus troop of insects; not altogether enjoying their clumsy, chaotic, precision aerial maneuvers; or that particular, bug brand humor, that required them to crawl into his nose,ears,and eye's; the bugs had finally found their audience and were doing their best to keep his attentions focused on the breath taking, hilarious, drama of the insect follies.  In an eloquent fit, lucky gave a review in the form of a monologue, orated before the ranks and rows of corn.  They just stood there, moving ever so lightly, in the wave of halitosis that would've been called a breeze on a tropical island; exhaling an oxygenated perfume of corn, hot, humid, and sweet; not sweet as in fresh water, but sweet as in a rotten lump of cane sugar.  The map was open and lucky made sure it was to date by zooming in to his location at the cut out, making sure it was his rig and his feet, sticking out from under the row hog hive in the thorax portion of his mother rig.