Timeless day

When I'm walking near the fence line I'm working on, I feel the heat radiating up from the grass, twenty degrees more than the mid-90s air.  It feels like I'm walking in an open oven.  I breathe in, and the air is hot in my lungs.  I pace myself, in order to not drop from the heat.  I feel like I'm a deep sea diver on the bottom of the ocean or an astronaut trudging along the "magnificent desolation" of the surface of the moon inside my spacesuit.  In the 4x4 "Mule" parked up the hill over there, on the other side of the fence, is my water cooler, resting against a chainsaw on the metal floor of the vehicle.  It's filled with ice and colder-than-imaginable water.  When I get to the hot bench seat and sit, I hold the small blue container over my head, letting the water pour down my throat.  I can stand only three large gulps of the nearly frozen liquid at a time—pouring the arctic into a volcano.