labor

The unforgiving sun bears down. There is no breeze, the air heavy with water but no cool rain. Every fiber of my being is sweating. Clothes are heavy, hot and sticky. Glasses covered in salt water that only allow a haze of light through. Arms and back ache from the constant strain. Bugs feasting on my blood like tiny vampires. Deserts have more liquid than my throat. I continue forward, barely shuffling, my feet moving as directed by a harsh and unforgiving taskmaster, constantly voicing annoyance at the results.
Slowly, surely, eventually the time moves forward enough that the labors can cease. The taskmaster is not satisfied, but will grudgingly accept the work. I am allowed to move back to my cave for some tasteless food and some rest.
  I hate weekend yard work.