First light in Dakota Ridge comes up off the plains and runs west until it strikes the Dakota Hogback, and the sandstone goes the color of a struck match. Acme Lawns is out under it early, while the bluegrass still holds dew and the mower leaves a dark wet line behind it. The work is mowing, trimming, edging — the ordinary rites — repeated until a yard has that combed, unhurried look it gets when somebody means it. By the time the sun clears the ridge, the clippings are blown off the walk and the edge along the drive is one clean pale seam. Nothing dramatic. Just a Front Range yard squared away before the heat arrives.