At four in the morning after a storm, Sherrelwood is blue-dark and completely silent, and the only sound on the block is a plow blade finding pavement. Front Range Snow is out in it — driveways opened, walks cleared, the ridge left by the county pushed back off the curb so nobody has to climb a berm to reach their car. Snow arrives here in every temper: dry powder in a January cold snap, wet March dumps that come down like poured concrete, a fast squall that whites out Federal Boulevard for an hour and then quits. The measure of the job never changes — the drive is open before the first alarm goes off, and the day starts on time. There's genuine pride in handing somebody back their morning.