The growing season up here is short and very bright — the grass comes on late, greens hard in that thin high-altitude light, and does not waste a single week of it. Mornings on the side streets smell of cut grass and cottonwood fluff, and the first pass of the mower goes down while the shadows still lie long across the block. Lawn care at this elevation is mostly a matter of timing: mow on a rhythm the turf can keep up with, hold the edges true along walk and curb, and clean the yard out in spring and again when the light starts to lean. Nothing fancy is being claimed here. Just a lawn that reads well from the sidewalk — even stripes, honest corners, the beds swept clean before the crew pulls away.