Round Valley wakes flat and wide, a green floor laid between dark mesas, and first light crosses it long before the town is up. Cowboy Up works that hour, when frost still beads the blades and the mower pulls a dark stripe through the silver. Mowing, edging, trimming along fence lines and walks — the work is simple and the standard is not: a lawn that looks combed, with a line at the drive you could sight down. At seven thousand feet the grass grows in a short, generous window, so every cut counts and the clippings get hauled off before the wind can take them. Elk graze the far pasture and pay no attention. By the time the day warms, the yard is finished and the tracks in the dew are the only sign anyone came.