Pikes Peak stands over Security so plainly that you can nearly tell the hour by where its shadow falls across the neighborhood. We work with that clock: mowers running in the cool of the morning, trimming and edging while the light is still soft on the bluffs east of town. At five thousand seven hundred feet the sun is close and the wind is dry, so we cut a little tall and keep to a schedule that never lets a lawn slip into catching up. There is a particular pleasure in the last edge along a driveway, where the blade leaves a line you could measure. A tidy yard under that mountain looks less like a chore finished and more like a place settled into.