Distant fog began its settlement. Still, Messiah-resurrection white illuminated an impairment shield to watching eyes.That's good. A sunny day is starting. Before the watchman's eyes, upper layers of fog lifted away, and remaining moister clung to leafy surfaces as dew.

The watchman, now a harvester, walked in perfect Swiss-mechanized fluid stride, welcoming his hydro-crop.He smiled with good humor, seeing how his large plastic harvesting system prolonged the penumbra, glaring reflected sunshine the same white as the recent fog. Collective dew streamed into a stainless steel bucket under the vast plastic sheet.

"You've eaten well, dew. You've graduated into a puddle at your age!" He joked to the draining aqua, continuing to smile mock-proudly. This harvester, a compactly cut tall young man, knelled, left knee to dirt, gazing at the center of the sinkhole.

"Nope, the hole isn't too big, the stone in the center still stands," he judged, watching the drip supply his needs.

"Hmm," the progress was satisfying. He lifted rocks pinning the plastic, then the plastic, then the bucket, holder of the harvest.He pulled it to his chest without as much as a grunt. It was just around twelve kilos or so, nothing more.
Walking with bucket held to upper torso, the bronze boy finally revealed the true size of his biceps, as well as other well-defined muscle areas. Perhaps fifteen meters later, Trace added this dew to the water supply.

"(Gurgle)," it channeled through a series of pipes. He sighed, satisfied with the water collection. He stepped away, swiveled.
As expected, the wolf-like hustling creature coming from behind was just the red-haired Alaskan Husky/Chow-Chow mix, Reba. An after-shock alarm followed the first alarm, as a "bang!" jumped from some device.

"Trouble? Trace scanned his West Texas estate visually, before getting a fix on his right hand.

"(Hysterical laughter) We startled me!" He continued his chuckle as his hand slid the non-discharged Luger pistol between Buffalo-belt and Khaki Gym-shorts.

"Did my hand really crack a sonic boom? The she-dog growled disapprovingly, oozing down to lie.

"What? You heard it. I know you heard it," he persisted, arms akimbo, he had finished scratching his self-cut mop hair to glare at the dog.

"Sure, blowing desert-dust is a brilliant retort."
Trace hunched down, surveying the pooch.

"Give me your scarf, it's going to be to hot for you today." He pulled the blue fabric off his friend, tied it around his own neck.

"I'll go empty the Post Office box in town; you stay here and acknowledge how fast I am. Trace Tronic holstered the gun, and walked to his bicycle, not far from the pipes.

"I'll be back shortly," he yelled, donning orange-tinted glasses and helmet.

He chose not to add elbow pads, even though he wore a sleeveless fire engine colored shirt.
It's not like I'll mess up!

He knew he would see a truck before riding into it; he rode like it.