Map Off... Clear Cache

Sat up and looked down the row, a beam of humidity filtered light hit the thermos; a jittery white pro-misted polished stainless steel cylinder in the bottom right peripheral of his anamorphic visual field, cast flickering bright green flashes, burnt out to the point of clipping the bottom of the leaves, overlay on.  Twisted bits of information superimposed on the thicket, identify each hog with banners waving in that breeze that strolled through his mind.  A big letter P expertly built out of the soil: map off... clear cache, stands up, bumps into the hand tow and remembers the race is on.

The Joy of Gardening.

Pull the dam thing, tugged and pulses the motor, put both hands behind his back like being hand cuffed and grabbed the handle, trudge, sludge, give it a budge.   Near it, everything dims and swims in the collapsing world of the hypertherm, no sweat, I've gone to far.   Lucky thought he needed to say, to get permission, "need to lay down just for" and crumple in to the cool ground. His right shoulder landed in the soft mud of the well worked soil.  He balanced there, on that thin piece of mud located at the edge of human endurance, that cool mud ,perched four inches deep in the most delightful of locations.