The smells of a working ranch, and the country-side, at dawn, were like heaven, to a city-born boy turned rustic. He relaxed, and then immediately chucked that frame of mind. He was on the clock, still. Service, duty you chose for yourself to give your life meaning, that did not ever end, until you drew your last breath. And sometimes, not then.
-- Horsefeathers through the engines by AlienZookeeper