The city keeps its elevation in its name, and so does this crew: 5,280 feet, where the sun arrives harder and the air holds less water than almost anywhere grass is asked to grow. Mowing on the high plains is its own discipline — the blue grama and buffalo grass that belong to this ground want a different hand than turf from wetter country, and the cut is set to what the light and the dryness will actually carry. Mornings on the northwest side come up cool and blue; by mid-afternoon the shade of the Front Range leans long across the yards and the work turns to trimming and edging. Every pass is measured, every border drawn clean along walk and drive. What's left when the trailer gate swings shut is a lawn that looks like it belongs to this altitude — not to somewhere lower and greener.